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The dining room is a magnificent feat of architecture. I know because I have studied every part of the crown molding, every detail of the mural above us, each crystal hanging from the chandelier over the table. I am intimately acquainted with the busts that line up against the wall behind the woman across from me, including the brightest and most recent addition to the lineup.

My father, cast in stone, staring back at me as though he can tell, even beyond the grave and as a statue, how little I want to be sitting in this room right now.

On the table before us is a glistening roast, surrounded by vegetables from the castle’s own greenhouse. My glass is full of a ripe, plum-colored wine that I picked myself from the cellar. A fire crackles joyfully in the brick fireplace to our right, and to our left, the large floor-to-ceiling windows give us a magnificent view of the gardens beyond.

Garden in the sense that it’s an area designed for a stroll, full of robust winter roses,evergreen bushes, and trees. Other than in a greenhouse or during the few warm-ish months of the year, we can’t dare to grow anything that leans toward being delicate. All our vegetables are of the root variety.

“Augustus?”

The voice comes from the other end of the long table and is directed at me. I turn away from looking out into the garden and face the woman who sits with perfect posture there.

Noemi wears a brilliant emerald dress that accentuates the soft copper waves hanging over her shoulders. Her hair is supple and soft, a sign of wealth in their pack more than any others. The Southern pack prizes hair so highly that her locks—shining and smooth, gently waving—are the equivalent of a massive diamond around her throat. Likely, there’s a whole team of servants dedicated to brushing it with boar bristles, oiling it, washing and conditioning it each night.

While the color of her dress is spectacular against her hair and pale skin, the neck of the dress hangs away from her chest in a sort of scooping construction. It just reminds me that she doesn’t have much to fill it out. Not like others—

I shake the thoughts from my head. First, it’s unbecoming to compare one woman’s body to another. And second, I should not be thinking about her.

About how it felt to grab her wrist again, to feel that contact. To want nothing more than to drag her body against mine, to press her up against the wall and take her right there. What the hell is it with the chase? Finding out she made it out of her room and was somewhere in the castle, it made my body fill with adrenaline.

With lust. Something about chasing her turns me the hell on, and that’s a major problem. Because she’s made it clear that she fully intends to keep running.

A delicate throat-clearing. “Augustus. I’m sorry—is there something wrong with the food?”

Once again, I have to force myself to focus on Noemi.

My betrothed.

Clearing my throat, I shake my head and look down at the delicious food on my plate. “No, no—it’s wonderful. Thank you.”

A slight smile crosses her face. “Okay. I wanted to do your catch justice.”

It’s all a ridiculous sort of song-and-dance that we’re going through. Last week, I caught this wild boar with the guys, and presented it—at Kellen’s strong urging—to Noemi. Who then “prepared” it for me in some antiquated mating ritual.

She and I both know that if—when—we get married, she will never have to lift a finger in this house. Her only duty will be staying quiet and carrying my babies. Acting as a political alliance between the Southern and Northern tribes.

But she didn’t cook this roast—her full staff of professional chefs did—and she won’t be cooking any of them for me after moving into my castle. It would be a good life for her.

Likely why she’s been so amiable in this stupid back-and-forth we’ve been forced to participate in. Lunches once a week, gifts sent back and forth between my place and hers, carried by staff members and courier boys. Things that I didn’t pick out for her, and items she didn’t pick out for me.

A perfume for a cologne. Flowers for a nice knife. Chocolates for a leather wallet with the family crest etched into the surface.

We are just actors in a play, reciting our lines and making it look to the outside world like we’re having a real, genuine engagement. It must go on for months to be proper, apparently.

“More wine, sir?”

I startle, once again having been lost in my thoughts, and glance up at the server holding the wine, his eyes resolutely locked on my near-empty glass. Maybe I should try not to drink so much around my future wife, but right now, I need the fucking booze.

“Yes. Thank you.”

At the other end of the table, Noemi smiles like basic manners on an alpha make him a total catch, and politely declines having any more wine herself, thank you. She’s barely taking a sip from the glass she’s working on now.

“Great roast,” I say again to Noemi, who smiles again as I take a bite of the meat. Maybe after this, I’ll scoop my fucking eyeballs out with the soup spoons, and it will be more enjoyable.

Once chewing, I turn and look out the window again without thinking.

This time, I see not just the garden with a light dusting of snow, but two figures moving along together, piled up in fur coats and stepping resolutely along the stone. Another figure trails them by a few feet, shivering in his regulation uniform.

Aurora and Mylah. Walking together in the garden.