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Everyone in Seraville knew that Maximus Drake, the so-called "saintly heir," was cold, restrained, and famously loyal to his first love. People said he lived like an ascetic in a tailored suit. I proposed to him anyway, not for him, but for his mother, who was destined to become my perfect mother-in-law. On our wedding night, I declared thoughtfully, "You pursue your spiritual purity. I'll spoil your mother. We each get what we want." Maximus suddenly pressed me gently onto the rose-covered bed, his gaze dark and amused. "Then I'd like to know," he said slowly, "what exactly makes me inferior to my mother?" A week later, I was holding my waist and complaining tearfully, "Please take your son back to his quiet, disciplined life. He's not a saint at all. He's a starving wolf."