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The bag wasn't built to take this much punishment for this long. The leather was beginning to stretch around the seams. I heard the change every time my fist landed; the impact getting less solid as the material weakened.

I hit it again.

The chain rattled overhead as the bag swung away from me. I stepped with it, waited for its return, then drove my fist into the center. I'd hoped an hour beating the shit out of something would relieve the pressure that had been building in my nuts since last night. No such luck.

I hadn't slept. I'd spent the entire night with Rosalind curled around me, warm and naked and peaceful. Every now and then she'd shift in her sleep, rubbing some soft part of herself against some hard part of me. There had been a lot of hard parts. I'd suffered through every fucking minute of it. The strawberry-peony scent of her hair in my nose. The salty sweat of her shoulder against my lips. And all those lush curves in the palms of my big, calloused hands.

I could've moved her. Could've gotten out of bed, taken a cold shower, jerked off, done literally anything other than lie there with a naked woman wrapped around me while my dick tried to punch a hole through my stomach.

But every time I thought about moving, Rosalind would make some soft little sound and burrow closer. Into me. Seeking my protection, finding comfort.

I stayed.

She sprawled across my chest as if she belonged there, one leg tangled with mine, her face tucked beneath my chin. Completely relaxed. Completely unguarded.

After everything I'd done wrong that first night, my wife trusted me enough to sleep naked in my arms. There wasn't a fucking orgasm on the planet worth disturbing that. So I'd lain there until morning with the sweet scent of her in my nose and a case of blue balls severe enough to qualify as a medical emergency.

I hit the bag again. The seam split beneath my fist. The sound was sharp as a gunshot. The bag jerked backward on its chain; the tear ripping wider as it swung. Shredded fabric burst through the opening and scattered across the floor in clumps.

I stared at the now useless thing as it swung back toward me, spilling its guts with every pass. Well. That was another one.

"Goddess, G."

I didn't turn at Vidar's voice.

"You know the bag isn't responsible for your problems?" Magnus asked.

"He just handled it like it was. The bag is dead."

I caught the bag on its next swing, unhooked it from the chain, and dragged the corpse across the gym. Shredded fabric left a trail behind me until I dumped the whole mess in the corner.

Vidar didn't know what the fuck he was talking about. I could be gentle. I could be careful. Thoughtful. I knew the difference between hurting someone and handling them. Between force and control. I knew exactly how much pressure a body could take and exactly when to ease off. But I wasn't having that argument with him again.

I crossed to the spare bags, wrapped both arms around one, and hauled it upright. A minute later, I had it hanging from the chain.

My brothers could think whatever the fuck they wanted about me. There was only one person whose opinion on the subject mattered. Rosalind knew what I was capable of. She'd seen the worst parts of me up close. She'd felt these hands around her throat. Felt my weight pinning her down. She knew exactly how easily I could hurt her. And she trusted me not to.

I planted my feet in front of the new bag and brought my fists up and hit it.

Vidar moved into my peripheral vision. Magnus came in behind him. Both of my brothers looked disgustingly pleased with themselves.

"The Yonkers situation is handled," Vidar said.

I grunted, aiming an uppercut at the new bag.

"Good thing we delegated," Magnus said.

"Very good thing." Vidar stretched his arms over his head. "I told you assholes I was going to need the morning."

Magnus gave him a sideways glance. "You weren't the only one."

Rosalind had slept in this morning, too. Two orgasms had apparently knocked my wife out cold. Meanwhile, I hadn't gotten off once.

Three newly mated Blackwood brothers, and somehow I was the only one not getting laid. I hit the bag again, a brutal cross this time.

Vidar went quiet, watching me. Then, because my brother had never possessed the basic survival instinct Goddess gave a fucking squirrel, he said, "Things not going so well with the wife, G?"

I hit the bag again.