“Yes, they run, but it’s different.”
It’s a chore to keep myself from snapping at him. I’m not exactly homesick, but I feel restless—like I escaped my old cell only to end up trapped in a smaller cage. After days in pain, followed by that marriage ritual, I just want fresh air and time alone to clear my head.
As I shift down the bed so I can face him head-on, the sheet slides away.
His gaze is a slow caress down the black silk nightdress I slipped on before collapsing into bed when we got back to our room after the ceremony. It’s not about modesty. Until last night, I’d never actually slept in a bed with a lover and it felt too vulnerable to be naked.
“Why is it different for me?” I ask.
“Because if you run, I will chase you, Harlow.”
I shiver. “Then run with me, if you must.”
“I thought you were familiarizing yourself with our customs. I left those books for you while you were in your—spiritual retreat.”
I read all about their strength-first hunting culture. I just want to hear him explain it aloud. “I was, and you’ll remember that I witnessed a hunt night.”
He scoffs. “You have seen the barest hint. The gifts we are blessed with—there’s a reason that there are so many rules about consent that are established ahead of time because it’s very intense. But it’s different now that you’re my wife. I’d be expected to fuck you into submission right there on the forest floor.”
The words send a reckless and completely unwanted thrill through me. Thank the Divine he can’t see auras because mine is swelling in my periphery.
“Honestly, if you want to fuck me again, you’re going have to chase me down, my wolf. I’m just not a good enough actress to fake it a second time and I’d hate for your ego to be bruised.”
Henry’s eyes gleam with challenge. “So you’re trying to tell me that you faked that last night? There are scratch marks on my back that say otherwise.”
“I scratch when I’m nervous. I don’t like being watched.”
“You seemed to like it just fine in the library the other day,” Henry taunts.
It takes enormous effort to hide the way the memory of that makes me feel—the way the memory of last night makes me feel. I’ll do what I must to dismiss this awkwardness, and anger is the easiest way to deflect him.
I fake a pout. “I was just doing my job. Divine have mercy, Henry. I bet you think whores like you too.”
He crosses his arms and leans back against the headboard. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had to pay for it.”
“Me either.” I laugh. “I’m glad I was so compelling. I was just doing my job as a dutiful wife to teach you how to get a woman off.”
He clenches his teeth. I’m fascinated by his possessiveness. He keeps saying it’s part of the fort culture, and I’ve seen that in the body language between couples here. But those people actually like each other, whereas Henry barely tolerates me. The external appearance of possessiveness makes sense, but no one is watching now.
I press a hand to my chest. “Oh, did I hurt your feelings, my wolf?”
He licks his full lips. “No, lovely. I just don’t think you could fake being that wet. Or the way your pussy gripped my cock. Or the way your pleasure was so powerful it literally broke the sigil of Kennymyra. That thing has survived hundreds of years of rituals.”
The words send heat coursing through my blood. I can feel him murmuring how good I feel into my ear. I can feel his hands bruising my hips. I can feel the slow slide of his?—
No. Absolutely not. I refuse to fantasize about my husband. I can’t think of a worse fate than being genuinely interested in the man I married.
I scowl at Henry and abandon my strategy. “Congratulations. Everyone manages to be good at something every once in a while. I’ll acknowledge the one-time fluke. You look like you need a win. Congratulations on giving your first orgasm.”
He shifts to his knees, and I freeze at the predatory look in his eyes. “I’ll prove it again right here, right now, Harlow. I’ll fuck you until you’re screaming so loud that there’s not a doubt left in this whole estate about whether or not you were faking.”
My mouth goes dry, and it’s as if every survival instinct has abandoned me. I don’t know why I can’t stop poking at him. The more he keeps his composure, the more I want to see how far I can push before he snaps.
This is a test—just a need to know my enemy—to know where the line is so I can dance along it without stumbling over.
It should be a turnoff that he’s so possessive. The last thing I want is an overbearing man controlling me. I’ve seen how that ends.
But there’s something about his control that feels like caretaking, and that is a very dangerous thing. This man doesn’t want to take care of me. He just wants toappearto take care of me. Forgetting that could break my heart at best. At worst, it will end my life.
