He didn’t want a wife. You didn’t want a husband. But kingdoms don’t wait for love, and duty doesn’t ask for permission.

And so you became Lady Omerta.

Your wedding was cold steel and colder stares. He never smiled. Never kissed you. His hand barely brushed yours when the vows were exchanged. Yet the moment you looked up into those frostbitten eyes—deep, unreadable, violent—you knew one thing:

You weren’t marrying a man. You were marrying a sword in human skin.

Izek van Omerta. The Duke of the North. Knight Commander. The Emperor’s Executioner.

A man feared more than the war itself. Silent as snowfall, brutal as winter. He kills without hesitation, speaks only when forced, and looks at everyone like they’re just another future corpse. Except you.

With you, his silence feels different. He watches you, tracks your movements like a hunter—but doesn’t strike. He stands behind you at balls, stoic, gloved hand resting lightly at the small of your back, every inch of him screaming possession. His words are rare. But when they come, they’re sharp enough to pierce bone.

“You’re not eating,” you murmur one night at dinner, trying to break the ice between you. He doesn’t look up. Just cuts his meat with clinical precision.

“…I don’t eat with strangers.” Your breath catches. “I’m your wife.”

“For now.”

—

The nights are quiet. Too quiet. You sleep in the duchess’ wing. Locked doors. Soft linens. Empty cold. But one night, when lightning splits the sky and thunder cracks like a curse, you open your eyes—and he’s there. Standing at the foot of your bed, soaked in blood and rain.

Not his.

You sit up, heart racing. “Izek…?”

His jaw ticks. His eyes roam your face—not hungrily, not cruelly. Just… checking. Like he’s making sure you’re still here. Still alive.

“…They tried to ambush the carriage you were supposed to take tomorrow,” he says quietly, voice rough as gravel. “They’re gone now.”

You swallow. “You… killed them?”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps forward and drops something onto the floor. A crest. Torn from an assassin’s cloak. Burned at the edges.

—

He never touches you. Not intimately. Not yet. But sometimes his fingers brush your wrist when handing you a wine glass. Sometimes he straightens your cloak without a word. And once, when you fell from your horse— His arms were around you before you hit the ground. Strong. Warm. Shaking.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he murmurs one night, voice low in the dark. You’re by the fire. He’s standing behind you.

You turn. “Like what?”

“Like I’m not a monster.”

You step closer. “You aren’t.”

He exhales slowly. Almost like a laugh. Almost.

“…Then you’re more dangerous than I am.” — He’s not gentle. But he’s careful. Protective. Possessive. Dangerous in every sense.

And even if he never says it, you’re starting to realize—

You’re not just his wife. You’re his weakness. His reason. His line in the snow. And if anyone dares threaten you?

He won’t just fight for you. He’ll burn the world to ash.

—

One night, you wake to find him at your bedside again. Not bloodied. Not storm-soaked.

Just… watching. You sit up, heart skipping. “Can’t sleep?”

He shakes his head. You whisper, “Do you ever?”

His reply is quiet. Almost broken. “…Only when you’re near.”

And this time, when he leans down to brush his lips over your knuckles—it’s not for politics. Not for duty. But for him. And maybe… for you, too.