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When we reached my room, I pushed the door open and stepped aside to let her pass. The moment she crossed the threshold, I shut the heavy oak door behind us, sealing out the rest of the house.

Rosalind didn't fumble or falter. She slipped off her shoes and placed them carefully side by side against the baseboard. I reached out with my foot and nudged an ottoman two inches to the left, clearing a direct line. I knew she could see vague shapes and outlines, but over the last forty-eight hours, making sure there were no obstructions in her way had become an instinct I couldn't shake.

"Don't keep moving things. I have to redraw the map in my head each time you do."

Oh? "Sorry."

She glided over to the vanity, her unfocused gaze settling somewhere near her reflection. I watched her fingers find the clasp of the silver bracelet on her wrist. A twist. A tug. It slipped free and landed in her palm before she tucked it into the velvet-lined jewelry box that had been in her many suitcases when we left the wedding.

Over the weekend, I'd brought them up and helped her unload designer garments into my closet, jewelry boxes onto the vanity, and toiletries in the bathroom. Each item had gone into a precise space according to a color-coded and geometric pattern that I think I was figuring out.

Everything about her was delicate. From the fabrics to the jewelry to the dainty bottles of shampoo. The thin chain around her wrist. The tiny pearls she plucked from her ears. The slender column of her neck when she tilted her head to find the backing. Even her fingers looked too small to fit between mine.

Peonies and strawberries drifted across the room, sweet enough to make my mouth water before that familiar bite of peppercorn caught at the back of my throat.

I wanted to cross the room. I wanted to wrap a hand around her entire waist. I'd already learned exactly how little effort it took to overpower her. I'd also learned what happened when I forgot how much stronger I was.

So I stayed where I was.

Rosalind placed the second pearl carefully beside the first and reached behind her neck for the clasp of her necklace. Her hair shifted over her shoulders. My fingers curled harder.

These hands knew exactly how much pressure it took to dislocate a shoulder. How far a wrist could bend before the small bones gave. How easily skin bruised beneath fingertips.

And all I wanted to do was touch her.

"Are you just going to stand there and stare at me," she asked, her voice cool and smooth as she closed the lid of the box with a soft click, "or are you going to get back to the task of baby-making with me?"

My blood hit a violent boil. My wolf snarled, clawing at the back of my ribs, demanding that I cross the room, drag her onto the mattress, and take what she was offering. The urge to bury myself inside her was so strong it made my teeth ache. I had to strangle the beast, forcibly choking back the instinct to pounce on my own wife.

I wasn't going to have a repeat of our disastrous wedding night. The memory of her flinching from me, the choked whimper she’d let out when I forced my way through her maidenhead—it still haunted every dark corner of my mind.

"Be honest with me, Rosalind." My voice dropped an octave into a low, steady rumble.

She turned around slowly, resting her lower back against the edge of the vanity. "When have I ever lied to you?"

"When have you ever been fully honest with me?" I took a single step forward. "When have you ever spoken to me without leaving half the truth behind your teeth?"

Her dark brows narrowed, drawing together as those pale, milky eyes locked directly onto my face.

I held the silence. Standing like a stone wall, refusing to break, refusing to give her an inch of leverage. For five agonizing seconds, the quiet stretched between us until Rosalind let out an irritated exhale.

"Fine. You win," she huffed, rolling her shoulders back. "I don't want to get pregnant."

My tight shoulders slumped half an inch, a heavy breath escaping my chest. I realized then how much I wanted to see her swell with my cub.

"However," Rosalind continued, her chin lifting with that regal arrogance that never failed to turn me on, "my kitty is healed, and I would like an orgasm. Please."

My dick went instantly, brutally hard. The air left my lungs as a hot wave of blood rushed straight to my groin, straining against the fabric of my sweatpants.

"I was thinking we could do oral," she added nonchalantly, smoothing down the front of her pink silk dress.

The sheer absurd contrast between her clinical, aristocratic tone and the filthy words coming out of her mouth short-circuited my brain. My cock wept with precum, throbbing so hard it was painful.

"Are you sure you want to take me in your mouth? It hasn't gotten any smaller."

Rosalind’s face contorted into a look of absolute disgust. "Ew. No. I meant you could go down on me."

I blinked a couple of times, staring at her as if she’d just spoken in a dead language.