"He is," Vidar said, his gaze fixed on mine, heavy and unyielding. "But he isn’t quite fit to be seen yet."
I knew exactly what that meant. My father’s men used that phrase when they’d spent too much time in the basement with someone. The rage turned from red to a blinding, freezing white.
The sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the back of the hall. Two men emerged; two more versions of the mountain standing in front of me. The tallest one stepped forward.
If Vidar was a fortress, this man was a mountain. He was taller than his brother, broader in the shoulders. But it was his eyes that stopped me. They weren't sharp like Vidar’s or mocking like Ivar’s; they were the eyes of an old soul, heavy with a weariness that didn't belong on a man who looked like he could snap a tree trunk with his bare hands.
He looked like safety. He looked like the kind of man you could crawl toward in a storm and find shelter. But I knew better. He was a Blackwood. Magnus Blackwood. The eldest, the heir to this entire cold, marble empire. He was the one who would eventually sit on the throne Vidar was so busy building.
Magnus stepped forward, but he didn't crowd me. He didn't loom. To my utter shock, he stopped a respectful distance away and held out a massive, calloused hand. He didn't reach for me; he waited.
"I'm Magnus." His voice was a deep, resonant rumble that felt like it started in the floorboards. "I'd like to welcome you to our family, Adolpha."
I stared at his open palm. It was the first time since I’d been snatched from my life that anyone in this family had asked for my permission. Even Ivar, for all his boyish charm, had pushed his friendship on me like a foregone conclusion. Magnus stood there, silent and steady, granting me the agency to choose.
I placed my hand in his. His skin was incredibly warm, his grip firm but careful, as if he were holding a piece of delicate glass he had no intention of breaking. For a fleeting, dangeroussecond, I felt that warmth try to seep into my bones, a siren song of comfort I hadn't felt in years.
I slammed the door on that feeling. I didn't dare let it penetrate the ice I’d built around my heart. It was false. This wasn't a meeting of equals; this was a king greeting a subject. No matter how much "permission" he offered, I knew the hierarchy. I was the Vane girl bought to settle a debt, the lowest on the totem pole for this would-be king.
"Call me Addie." I pulled my hand back as quickly as I could without it being an insult. The warmth lingered on my skin like a brand, a reminder that in this house, even the kindness was a weapon designed to make you forget you were a prisoner.
I shifted my gaze to the second man. He was shorter than his brothers but still loomed over me, built with the thick, compact power of a middleweight boxer. His nose was crooked, like the jagged trophy of a fighter who had stopped a few too many punches with his face. His grin was pure arrogance. When he smiled, his teeth were startlingly white and too straight for a man who spent his time in the ring. I couldn't take my eyes off their gleam; they looked like a row of polished ivory in the light of the hall.
He didn't wait for my hand. He reached out, caught my fingers in his grip, and brought them to his lips with a flourish.
"I’m Gunnar," he murmured against my skin, his eyes dancing with a heat that made my skin crawl.
As he lowered my hand, my gaze caught on his knuckles. They were split and bruised, the skin a mottled purple and red. Magnus was the king in waiting. Vidar was the brains of the operation. Gunnar was the muscle. This was likely the animal that had beaten Elias.
I didn't pull away. Instead, I smiled, flashing Gunnar my own straight, sharp teeth in a mirror of his cocksure grin. He looked charmed, his chest puffing out slightly as if he’d already won.
The moment he released my hand, I stepped into his space, shifted my weight, and swung with my left. I put every ounce of my father’s cruelty and my own decade of suppressed rage into the hook. The sound of my fist connecting with his jaw was the most beautiful thing I’d heard all day.
Gunnar’s head snapped back. He stumbled, his heavy boots scuffing the marble as he fought to stay upright. Magnus winced. Vidar let out a long, weary sigh.
"That's for my brother."
Gunnar slowly straightened his neck. He reached up, thumbing a bead of blood that was beginning to well at the corner of his mouth. He looked at the red on his thumb, then back at me. A low, dark laugh vibrated in his chest.
"A southpaw? I like her!" he barked, his eyes gleaming with genuine, predatory delight. "Welcome to the family, sis."
CHAPTER NINE
VIDAR
Istood at the entrance of the formal dining room, my hand hovering just behind the small of Addie’s back. The tension radiating off her was a jagged current that made my wolf bristle in response. She was hostile. Which was fine. As long as none of that hostility was a threat to my family.
Gunnar was fine. She likely improved his nose with that hook. I'd done worse, having been the first person to break it.
My brothers had gone ahead to the dining room where my dad sat at the head of the table. Addie and I entered last, effectively boxing her in. It was habit more than anything, this formation. Magnus, Gunnar and I had spent our lives building a fortress around our family, ensuring that no shadow could touch us, no debt could weaken us. If this woman—this brilliant, volatile creature I’d just bought—proved to be a structural flaw in that fortress, I would eliminate her.
My wolf let out a low, internal snarl at the thought, a visceral rejection of the idea of hurting her. I shoved the feeling down. She wasn't family. She was a Vane. The only thing you could ever truly trust was blood. History had proven that fact. That was the only way we survived.
"Dad," came an unseen feminine voice, "move the phone away from your ear. It’s a video call."
Magnus stepped forward, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He reached over our father’s shoulder and gently took the cellphone, holding it at the proper angle.
Fenrir’s face transformed instantly. The hard lines of the Alpha softened, his eyes lighting up with a raw, uncomplicated adoration that he saved only for his daughter. "There she is. There’s my girl. Are you eating enough? You look thin. Your mother will write a letter to the Dean."
