"Can I say goodbye to my brother?" My voice sounded small even to my own ears.
Magnus smirked, a jagged, wolfish expression. "The kid’s upstairs sleeping off a righteous hangover."
Hot annoyance flared in my chest. They’d gotten my twenty-year-old brother drunk, yet they were treating him like one of the boys, accepting him into the fold with a shrug and a laugh. Meanwhile, I was being ushered out the door under armed guard, a prisoner being moved to a smaller cage.
The drive back to the city was a war of attrition. Every time I tried to bridge the gap with a question, Vidar met me with amonosyllabic "Yes," "No," or "Perhaps," before finally turning on the radio.
The choice of music surprised me. I expected something aggressive—something that matched the rhythmic violence of his life—but instead, the car filled with the intricate, soaring strings of a cello concerto. The gentle tones acted like a sedative on my frayed nerves, lulling me into a shallow, dreamless nap.
When I opened my eyes, the rural greenery of the estate had been replaced by the concrete and brick of a private garage in the heart of Manhattan.
Vidar didn't wait for a valet. He stepped out and opened my door, his hand firm as he helped me onto the pavement. He didn't let go of my hand. He kept my fingers locked in his as we walked toward the private elevator bank. His hold reminded me of those parents who put their children on a tether attached to a backpack. As we stepped out onto the top floor, the silence returned, heavier than before.
"Are you going to carry me over the threshold?" My voice dripped with flippant irony. "Is that the next step in the 'Perfect Husband' handbook?"
Vidar didn't smile. He didn't even look annoyed. He simply reached out, his hand ghosting past mine to open the massive, reinforced doors. He stepped back, his eyes fixed on mine, waiting for me to enter.
The penthouse was a masterpiece of cold, impersonal opulence. It was all floor-to-ceiling glass, polished slate, and sharp, minimalist lines. It had none of the warmth of the family estate; no humming mother at the stove, no brothers lounging on the furniture. It was a fortress of luxury, a museum where the only exhibit was my own isolation.
I turned back to ask where I would be sleeping. Vidar hadn't moved past the threshold. He stood in the hallway, the elevator dinging and the doors back open behind him.
"Make yourself at home. Your clothes are in the guest room. The kitchen is fully stocked. I have to go to work. I’ll be back late."
Before I could find the words to argue or even to ask, he pulled the heavy doors shut. The sound of the deadbolt sliding home echoed through the cavernous living room like a gunshot. Followed by the sound of the elevator dinging its doors closed.
I stood in the center of the pristine, silent room, looking out at the sprawling skyline of Manhattan. I had everything a woman could want—a million-dollar view, a designer wardrobe, and a pantry full of delicacies. But as I walked to the window and realized the glass didn't have a single latch to open, the truth settled into my bones. Vidar hadn't brought a wife home. He’d transferred his new asset to a high-security vault.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
VIDAR
“Mr. Blackwood, do you want us to delay the Ironwood transfer until things stabilize?”
“No. Execute.”
“Sir, Legal is asking if we should draft a statement regarding the rumors circulating among the?—”
“No statement. Silence says all we need it to.”
“Finance flagged irregular movements in the Cayman accounts. Should we hold position?”
“No. Drain it.”
“Security wants confirmation on increased patrols at the southern border?—”
“Approved.”
The questions came the moment I stepped out of the elevator at Blackwood Holdings. One after another. Hesitant. Deferred.
Waiting.
For me.
I moved through the glass-and-steel lobby without breaking stride, answering each one before the last word had fully left their mouths. These weren't difficult questions. Hell, they really weren’t questions at all. They were decisions. Obvious ones. That many should have executed themselves.
But this was the way of pack hierarchy. They weren't asking for guidance. They were asking for permission.
The Blackwood headquarters didn't just house a business; it housed a machine. As I walked through the glass-and-steel lobby, the low, rhythmic hum of the building acted like a sedative on my lingering aggression. Everything here was a study in order. Magnus was the face and the diplomat, managing the complex, blood-stained politics of the Packs. Gunnar was the fist, the blunt instrument who removed obstacles with a terrifying, messy efficiency.
