A growly wolf shifter king. A witch who smiles at his growls. What could go wrong with that?

My grandmother calls my arranged marriage a strategic alliance. I call it being voluntarily handed to a wolf shifter king who growls at diplomatic functions and carries me up one hundred and four stairs without breaking a sweat.

King Feral Shadowpaw and I agree to live separate lives. It should be simple.

Except his pack is losing the ability to shift, and the trail I’m following leads somewhere neither of us is prepared for. There’s old magic buried in this forest, and a rival alpha who knows more about this than he should. If I can’t find answers in time, the pack falls and Feral’s rule is in danger.

I’m very good at solving problems, and I’m sure I can fix this one too. The real complication is that my analytical brain, the one that catalogs everything, questions everything, and feels nothing it can’t quantify, has started producing data I cannot explain away.

Feral picks flowers for me each morning.

He orders my squirrel companion a breakfast tray.

And he rides a flying mop with me.

Hypothesis? I’m in serious trouble.