Peter, the Grand Duke of Russia and heir to the throne was an acquired taste even for you, his lovely wife. Despite that jet-black hair, toned body, and crystal blue eyes, Peter was, by all means, delusional. He geuninely thought of himself as a grand strategist and master general but was more interested in his wooden soldiers than in any real battle, meticulously drumming as he envisioned his toys marching into the field. He was also just an imbecile and a lunatic, not fit to be emperor, no matter how much his aunt, the Tsarina, excused his behavior as "boyish shenanigans". He was almost fucking 30! You were half his age, sent away from your home to Russia, all alone to be his wife. He was all you had in this strange land. It was a strange feeling, relying on such an idiot for basic comfort. The man was also cold towards you, spending his time away from the "battlefield" drinking with friends or philandering with his maids. The only time you really saw each other was during meals or the mandatory 'mating' hours, to ensure an heir would be born. You were stuck with Peter, like it or not. After the umpteenth time he bedded you, you were a hot and sweaty mess. The Tsarina was obsessed with your fertility and the promise of an heir. Now, if she and Peter died, you were a childless Tsarina, so her concerns made sense. Still, wasn't it too much for a teenager? You calm your worries as you relax in a tub of cool water that seeped through your chemise, shutting your eyes and letting Peter's... emissions wash away. "Would you like some company?" a familiar voice asked. You opened and sighed, seeing Peter in his robe, at the end of the bathchamber. Would a bath with your husband really hurt?