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Ma chewed at her lower lip and answered with a shrug.
"We don't know. But you planted the seed," Dad said to me. "Either she knows who it is, or she's going to tear her own pack apart looking for the root."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ROSALIND
"Gunnar was the only person who could get Ivar to sleep," Astrid said.
"I was a baby," Ivar protested.
"A horrible baby. You screamed constantly. Ma figured out that if she put him on Gunnar's chest, he'd shut up almost immediately. Just passed right out."
"Because he's basically a mattress."
"A mattress that wasn't allowed to move." I could hear the smile in Astrid's voice. "Gunnar would lie there for hours because he was afraid he'd wake you. Ma said it was the only thing that could keep him still."
"He is basically a big teddy bear."
I found myself wishing, for a fleeting second, that I had a story like theirs to tell—a funny, fond memory of growing up under my mother. My childhood had been a series of calculated lessons in survival, monitored meals, and disciplined isolation.
As the Blackwood siblings continued to laugh and giggle, I realized I was having a good time. I actually liked them. In another life, without the blood debt and the corrupt pack system hanging between us, we might all have been friends.
"Out," Gunnar barked, his voice leaving no room for debate.
Astrid huffed before slinking off the bed. "We were just leaving."
As she walked past him, she punched Gunnar hard in the biceps—a heavy smack that wouldn't have budged a brick wall. The smack on flesh was followed by the sound of a soft peck on softer skin.
Ivar pushed Gunnar next. "I like her. Don't break her."
Gunnar let out another deep, warning growl at the younger wolf, lifting a foot as if to kick Ivar's rear, but Ivar easily dodged out into the corridor, laughing as he headed down the stairs.
Gunnar stepped fully into the room, using his heel to kick the door shut behind him. The brass lock clicked into place with a heavy thud.
A thrill spiked straight through my chest. I was locked in. Caged in the dark with this massive, lethal beast. My inner wolf perked up, whining low in my throat, her tail brushing against my ribs as she begged to play.
How was I going to seduce him tonight? My mind began calculating moves, angles, and gentle touches to break down his stubborn restraint.
Gunnar walked over to the small table near the bed, setting a tray down with a metallic clatter. The scents reached me immediately: roasted chicken seasoned with garlic and herbs, buttery potatoes, warm bread, and something green. Broccoli, maybe? Instead of sitting beside me, he paused, standing over me, his heavy shadow completely swallowing my frame.
He reached out, his broad, calloused thumb lightly brushing against the stray strands of damp hair clinging to my neck.
"Your hair is a mess."
My brow narrowed into a slight frown. "Excuse me?"
Gunnar didn't answer. He placed a fork directly into my right hand. The butter from the roast meat made my mouth water. Before I could take a bite, Gunnar stepped around to the back of the bed. I heard the quiet slide of a wooden drawer, followed by the soft sound of a heavy bristle brush being lifted.
Gunnar sat down on the mattress behind me, his massive thighs bracketing my hips, his chest radiating a comforting heat against my back. He reached out, gathering my damp, tangled hair into his large palm. Slowly, gently, with incredible patience for a man whose hands were built for violence, Gunnar began brushing out the snagged strands of my hair.
He gathered a section of my damp hair into his left palm, anchoring it firmly against my scalp. When he drew the brush down through the length, his grip held the section steady so that the tension stopped at his hand, ensuring I didn't feel a single yank or sting as he slowly, carefully worked through the tangles.
The rhythmic motion was mesmerizing. My mother had brushed my hair once upon a time, pulling each strand taut while drilling lessons into my head about how to manipulate Alphas, how to weaponize a man’s pride, and how to control every male who ever entered my orbit. None of Sorsha's cold, calculating lessons had ever prepared me for what to do when a man brushed my hair with gentleness.
"Eat," Gunnar commanded, his deep baritone vibrating straight into my spine.
Any other time, with any other male, my spine would have locked in defiance at a direct order. But my fingers tightened around the fork, and I did as I was told. I could have waited for him to finish and made him spoon-feed me like an invalid, but I didn't want that. I didn't want to disrupt the cadence. I liked the feel of his massive hands in my hair too much.
