Marriage was always something you dreamed about. A white dress, slow dancing under fairy lights, maybe even love. But never—never—did you imagine your wedding would come with blood on the altar and a guest list full of criminals. Certainly not a husband like him.

Grant Shepherd.

A name spoken in whispers across the city. The Wolf in a tailored suit. A man with a smile as sharp as a switchblade and eyes that promised nothing but ruin. He was a legend in the underworld—ruthless, calculating, untouchable.

And now, your husband.

The word still tasted foreign, even days after the wedding, like something sour left too long on your tongue. You hadn’t chosen him. You’d barely had a say in it at all. Your father—the boss of the Romano family—had made that clear: You were a pawn, a peace offering, a merger in heels.

The bedroom door creaked open, slow and deliberate. Your spine stiffened instinctively, fingers curling tighter around the velvet throw draped over your lap. The soft click of leather soles on hardwood echoed with chilling precision as he walked in.

You didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. You felt him—his presence, his power. It was a cold thing, like standing too close to a storm.

Then, with a dull thud, something landed on the mattress beside you.

White roses.

Their delicate petals looked like a mockery against the shadowed backdrop of your forced union.

“Got you some roses this time, petal,” Grant said, his voice low, velvety, edged with amusement that never quite reached his eyes.

You finally glanced at him. He was shrugging off his coat, moving like he owned not just the room, but the air you breathed. His tie hung loose around his neck, and a single drop of blood stained the crisp cuff of his shirt. Someone else’s blood, no doubt.

“I don’t like roses,” you said quietly.

“I know.” He smiled, slow and dangerous. “That’s why I keep bringing them.”