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After he untangled a section, Gunnar didn't immediately move to the next. He smoothed the flat of his broad palm straight down the back of my head. His calloused fingers traced the sensitive skin between my shoulder blades, brushing the top of my spine. An involuntary shiver rippled over my skin.

"Cold?" he asked, his hand pausing against my back.

I shook my head no, bringing another piece of the tender meat to my lips. The rich flavor delighted my tongue. The protective heat of the male behind me warmed my chest. For a fleeting, quiet minute, my husband was taking care of me.

Then he ruined it.

"I just got off the phone with your mother," Gunnar said casually, his brush resuming its slow, steady strokes through a new section of hair. "She didn't deny the things Petrakis said about her pack when I pressed. I don't trust her, Rosalind. Not a bit."

Get in line, buddy. A sudden impulse flared in my throat. It was a reckless desire to tell him the truth. To drop the veil. To admit that I was the informant orchestrating the chaos that had been tearing the packs apart for nearly a year. But the survival instinct ingrained in my blood clamped my mouth shut.

Gunnar set the brush down on the nightstand with a quiet thud. He didn't step away from me. He rested both of his big hands on my shoulders, leaning down until his warm breath brushed against my ear.

"I want to trust you, Rosalind. I want you to trust me. How can I make that happen?"

Deep down, I knew he shouldn't trust me. I knew that in the end I was going to betray him and tear his family's legacy to the ground. But as I sat anchored between his legs, feeling the lingering heat of his palms on my shoulders, a selfish thought took root in my mind.

What if I get to keep him?

He was a magnificent protector: big, strong, and lethal. More than that, he liked to serve me. He fed me, guided my steps, cleared pathways for my ruined eyes, and brushed my hair with a patience no other male possessed. I was certainly never going to find another man like him.

The real puzzle was how to bind him to me completely. How could I make him loyal to me first—above his pack, above his bloodline—so that when I finally detonated the system and destroyed the pack legacy, he would remain standing at my side?

I took a slow, steadying breath, leaning back slightly against his chest to offer him a partial truth. "My mother trained me to take advantage of men. She made sure I understood how to turn a male's instincts against him. She even let me practice on her guards. By the time I was twenty, every guard in her inner circle was wrapped around my pinky finger."

A low, dangerous growl rumbled from deep within Gunnar's chest, vibrating right through my shoulder blades. "I don't want to hear about your fucking guards, Rosalind."

I reached up, caught his heavy wrists, and turned around on the mattress to face him directly. I forced his shadow to loom over me, looking toward his face through my pale, unseeing eyes.

"I'm not talking about sex," I said, cutting off his rising temper. "Men can easily be manipulated when they think with their dicks. When they believe they're going to get attention down there, it makes them obedient."

I paused, letting my thumb trace the thick vein on the inside of his wrist. "I never gave any wolf's dick attention. Except yours."

Gunnar's heavy breathing hitched. The gold in his eyes shone into mine as he locked onto my face.

"I had sex with you on our wedding night because I married you. It was a contract. But now? Now I want to do it because I want you. And because I trust you to make it good for me this time."

I leaned in, my lips inches from his, letting my warm breath brush his jaw. "I'm giving you my body. Prove me right, give me pleasure, and then I'll trust you."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

GUNNAR

Rosalind lay stretched across the mattress in nothing but a pale silk robe. The belt was tied loosely around her waist. Not loose enough to reveal anything, but enough that the silk followed every damp curve beneath it.

After our wedding night, I had been careful not to crowd her. Careful with my hands. My voice. Even my size.

Fear had a scent. So did arousal. My wife was aroused. My big brain struggled to process this, as my little brain, which was bigger than average, had thoughts all its own.

Then I remembered the forest. Her wolf running from me. The chase. The moment I caught her. The way she'd gone still beneath me once she realized she couldn't get away.

My gaze lifted to her face. Her pale eyes were fixed directly on me. Again, I had the sensation that she saw me. Not seeing me, as in turning her face toward the sound of my footsteps. Not becoming aware of my presence by tracking my scent. Seeing me with those ruined eyes.

But my wife kept secrets. I was beginning to understand that Rosalind Blackwood was far smarter than anyone gave her credit for. More calculating, too. The spoiled, naïve little princess routine was exactly that: a routine.

My gaze dropped to the silk stretched over her breasts. Her nipples pressed against the thin fabric. My mouth watered. I dragged in a breath and immediately regretted it. Her thighs were parted. Her scent was stronger there. My fingers curled into fists at my sides.

I wanted my hands on her.