Franz changed the sheets while Arianne drifted in and out of sleep on the nearby armchair.

She was too tired to move, her body loose and heavy against the chair. He guided her gently to the bed— lifted her when he needed to, rolled her to one side and then the other, her murmured protests barely words. By the time he’d finished, she was already gone, her breathing deep and even, her face slack with exhaustion.

He lay down beside her. The sheets were cool and clean. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the lamp on the nightstand. Outside, the spring night was quiet. No wind. No traffic. Just the soft hum of the estate settling into its bones.

He should sleep. He was exhausted too. But he couldn’t.

He watched her instead. The way her hair spread across the pillow, dark against the white cotton. The way her face was relaxed in sleep — no tension in her jaw, no furrow between her brows. She looked younger like this. Unguarded.

He’d been restless for weeks. Every night in that hotel room, alone, reaching for her in the dark and finding nothing. Every cold shower at midnight, the water shockingly cold against his skin, his body refusing to listen to reason. Every phone call where her voice was enough to steady him but not enough to satisfy him.

Now she was here. Beside him. Her warmth seeping through the sheets. Her scent on the pillow. Her breath, slow and even, the quiet proof that she was real.

He was calm. For the first time in weeks, he was calm.

She’d called him perverse.

The memory surfaced unbidden — her voice, dry and unimpressed: Since when did you become perverse? He’d laughed. Deflected. Whispered something filthy in her ear to watch her expression flicker.

But she was right. He had become perverse. At least when it came to her.

He didn’t know when it started. Perhaps their first time — the careful, tentative way she’d guided him, her voice low and patient, telling him what she wanted without making him feel inexperienced. Perhaps before that, in the stolen kisses in her study, in the sitting room, against the door of his bedroom. Perhaps years ago, when he’d looked at her and thought: This is what I want. This is all I will ever want.

The years of being a vegetarian had ended. That was the metaphor he’d settled on. For years, he’d wanted her from a distance. Never touching. Never tasting. Never asking for more than she was willing to give. He’d survived on scraps — a glance across a room, a brief conversation, the sound of her voice. He’d told himself it was enough. He’d made himself believe it.

And then she’d married him. And then she’d taken him to her bed. And then he’d taken his first bite.

Now he couldn’t stop.

He was a wolf. A big, bad wolf. Hungry for her in ways that still surprised him. He’d spent years being patient, being restrained, being the man who waited without demand. And now that he’d finally been allowed to touch her, he couldn’t get enough. Every night apart was torture. Every night together was an opportunity. He’d become insatiable. Ravenous. Perverse.

He didn’t apologize for it. He was simply aware of it. She’d ruined him, and he’d thanked her, and he meant it.

The Arianne everyone knew was different from the Arianne who shared his bed.

Everyone else saw the CEO. The strategist. He saw that woman too. He loved that woman. But he also saw the one no one else saw.

The one who was a passionate lover. Who’d never once made him feel lacking. Who guided him when he hesitated, her hand on his, her voice low and certain. Like this. Yes. Don’t stop. The one who let him try things, who trusted him enough to follow where he led, who’d let him bend her over her own desk while her hand pressed desperately over her mouth.

The one who shed tears during intimacy. Not from pain. Never from pain. From the sheer overwhelming intensity of it, when everything felt too much to handle and her body had no other way to release it. He’d learned to read those tears. To slow down. To kiss them away. To wait until she nodded, her voice breaking, telling him to keep going.

He must have truly lost his mind. He’d thought the weeks of separation would diminish his obsession. Thwart it. Give him some perspective and some relief from the constant, gnawing hunger.

It hadn’t. Every night was torture. He missed her scent. Her touch. Her entirely. He’d lie awake in his hotel room and imagine her beside him, and when his imagination wasn’t enough, he’d take a very cold shower at midnight and stand under the water until his body behaved.

The cold showers hadn’t helped. Nothing had helped. Only this — her body beside him, her breath on his skin, her hand on the mattress near his.

He leaned down. Pressed his lips to her forehead. Light. Brief. She didn’t stir.

She wanted a child with him.

The thought still amazed him. Arianne, who’d told him once that she couldn’t imagine bringing a child into the life she’d had, who’d avoided the idea for years, who’d been honest with him from the beginning about her reluctance — that Arianne was tracking her cycle now. Planning ovulation windows. Telling him that they should try harder.

She wanted a child. With him. A child who would be part of her and part of him, who would never feel unwanted, who would be loved and cherished every single day.

How could he not love her? How could he have ever done anything else?

Arianne stirred beside him. Shifted closer. Her hand found his chest, her fingers curling against his skin. She didn’t wake. But her body sought him out, even in sleep. The way it always did. The way he hoped it always would.

She’d complained to him earlier. Her voice drowsy, the words slipping out before she could filter them. I’m sore. Down there. And one of my— She’d gestured vaguely at her chest, too tired to finish the sentence. He’d kissed her shoulder and apologized. He hadn’t entirely meant it.

His desire stirred again. He suppressed it. She needed rest. He’d already taken enough tonight. He’d been too rough. Too eager. Too hungry. He’d make it up to her tomorrow. Or the day after. Or whenever she’d let him touch her again.

Franz wondered if a long honeymoon would satisfy him. A week. Two weeks. Nothing but her, somewhere remote, no twins, no schedules, no interruptions. A bed they never had to leave. A door they never had to open.

He doubted she’d agree. Arianne was too strict about work. The quarterly assessments. The board meetings. Unless there was an emergency, she wouldn’t yield. She’d tell him the company needed her. The twins needed her. She’d be right.

He’d have to focus on work instead and channel this energy somewhere productive. He needed to work hard — harder than he already was. The filming. The contracts. The career he’d built over more than a decade. He refused to live on his wife’s finances. He never had. He never would.

Arianne was wealthy. He knew that. The Summers and Conway inheritance, the Rochefort position, the investments she’d made over the years — she had more than enough. But he hadn’t married her for her money. He’d married her because he’d loved her for years, and he wasn’t going to stop now. Their child wouldn’t want for anything. He’d make sure of that. Every role he took, every contract he signed, every late night on set — it was all for them. For her. For the family they were building.

His hand moved to her stomach. Flat and warm. He spread his fingers across the skin below her navel, where someday — soon, maybe — something would grow.

He wondered what their child would look like. Her eyes, he hoped. Dark and sharp, taking in everything. Her determination and strength. Or maybe his stillness. His patience. A blend of both of them, a person who’d never have to wonder if they were wanted.

He made a silent promise to her sleeping form. She only needed to bear the child. The rest — the late nights, the colic, the diapers, the feedings, the thousand small tasks of raising a human — he’d handle. She wouldn’t need to worry. She’d carried enough in her life.

He’d carry this. He’d carry all of it. She only needed to be here. To stay and to let him love her.

Arianne stirred again and shifted closer. Her hand found his on her stomach, her fingers interlacing with his in her sleep. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

He smiled. Pressed his lips to her forehead once more.

The wolf at rest. The future waiting. His wife beside him, her body warm against his, her hand in his on the stomach where their child might someday grow.

He closed his eyes and slept.