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I gripped the edge of a velvet couch near the sitting-room door, reaching blindly until my fingers wrapped around a plush cashmere throw blanket. I dragged it off the sofa, clutching it tightly against my chest as I stumbled out into the hallway, forcing myself to limp forward on unstable legs. I had barely made it five paces into the corridor before a massive shadow filled the doorway ahead.

"Rosalind?"

I flinched, clutching the blanket tighter around my bare shoulders, letting out a small, trembling gasp as I took a deliberate, unsteady step backward. "I was looking for the first-aid kit."

Gunnar let out a strangled, choked sound. The intake of breath sounded like a man being stabbed in the chest.

Hook, line, and sinker. The weight of his own guilt was crushing him. His Blackwood honor was tearing him apart for hurting his brand-new, fragile bride. He wouldn't question why I wasn't in this wing. He wouldn't look twice at the open door to his mother's office behind me. All he would see was his own failure as a protector.

He moved closer, his hands hovering uselessly in the air, terrified to touch me, terrified he would break me further. The moon cut through the high stained-glass window above us, casting a pale, silver beam across my face. In my hurry, I hadn't put my sunglasses back on.

Gunnar’s breath hitched. Standing this close, his 20/20 vision locked onto my wide, unblinking eyes. I knew what stared back at him before I could think to close my eyes. He got a full view of pale, milky, and completely unfocused pupils in the moonlight.

His hand froze in the air between us. The heavy, guilty air in the hallway went dead silent.

"Rosalind…are you blind?"

CHAPTER NINE

GUNNAR

My mother always said I had the memory of a goldfish. Three seconds. That was how long she claimed a goldfish could remember anything, and about how long I could hold a grudge when I was a kid. Vidar could piss me off, I'd punch him, he'd punch me back, and three seconds later I'd be asking if he wanted to play. Magnus could steal something from my plate and I'd threaten to break his fingers, then forget why I was mad before I finished eating.

As I got older, three seconds became three minutes. Sometimes three hours. But anger never stuck to me. Neither did irritation. Sadness took a little longer, but even that eventually loosened its grip. Whatever happened, happened. I dealt with it and moved on.

The cool night air stung my lungs as I rounded the corner. Sweat stuck to the back of the shirt I'd just pulled over my head, acting more like a towel than a cover-up. Then I saw her.

Rosalind stumbled along the stone wall, her fingers grazing the rough granite as if grounding herself. My muscles twitched before my brain could stop them. Both man and wolf reached out to her. Hesitation hit a beat later before I touched her.

I had hurt her. The memory of her flinching from me kept my feet planted on the floor and my bloody hands to myself.

But then she turned toward the window, and moonlight hit her face. Her eyes were milky clear, shimmering like pale clouds wrapped around a winter moon. They were striking. Hauntingly beautiful. But wrong. Unnatural.

"Rosalind, are you blind?"

Her chin snapped up, her spine locking straight. Those clouded eyes flashed, catching the dim light. It was her wolf peeking through. The beast insulted by the accusation. In a heartbeat, the image of a helpless, stumbling woman dissolved. Standing before me was a formidable queen, looking down on a subject who had dared to speak out of turn.

A dark, twisted part of me wanted her to snap. I needed her to drop the fragile facade and hit back.

"I am not defective," she spat, her voice laced with venom.

The spark in her tone washed over me like ice water thrown on a fighter in the boxing ring. It dissolved a heavy layer of the guilt suffocating me, putting me back in the game. There she is. She wasn't the weak, breakable creature she pretended to be. She had steel beneath that golden brown skin.

Before she could take another unsteady step, I closed the distance and scooped her into my arms.

Rosalind gasped, freezing like a marble statue in my grip. "What are you doing?"

"I'm carrying you back to our bed," I said smoothly, shifting her weight against my chest.

"I can walk." She squirmed, pressing her hands against my shoulders in protest. "My vision is impaired, not gone. I am not completely blind. I can see. Just not well."

She kept arguing, her voice rising as she listed every reason she didn't need my help. With every sharp retort, I felt the tension drain from my shoulders. The weight of her in my arms, bitching and moaning, felt right. I tightened my grip, carrying my stubborn wife down the dark corridor, feeling lighter than I had all night.

“Were you born this way?” I asked as I carried her up toward the landing.

Rosalind stopped squirming and arguing. The tension melted out of her frame. She went soft and pliant against my chest, relaxing into my arms with the unbothered grace of a queen accustomed to being carried by her servants.

“I was. But my wolf is perfect. She sees just fine.”