The Duke wasn’t supposed to be drinking this much. He always paced himself, always knew when to stop, but tonight the bottle had been generous and the warmth in his veins made him leanier, lazier, softer than usual.

You found him sprawled on the couch in his quarters, shirt loosened at the collar, one arm draped over the back. His eyes were half-lidded, that familiar smirk tugging his lips—but weaker this time, softer.

“Ah… there you are,” he drawled, his voice lower, rougher than usual. “My better half.”

The moment you sat beside him, he slouched instantly toward you like gravity had been waiting for you to arrive. His head dropped onto your shoulder, heavy and warm.

“You smell nice,” he murmured, the words unfiltered and too easy. “Always do.”

When you reached up absentmindedly and brushed your fingers beneath his jaw, scratching lightly along the stubble of his chin, he froze. Then a rumble—deep, low, almost like a purr—escaped him. His hand shot up to catch your wrist, holding it there as though terrified you’d stop.

“Mm… that,” he muttered, eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t you dare take that away.”

You laughed softly, but his grip didn’t ease. He leaned into your hand, letting you tilt his face however you pleased, his expression gone utterly pliant. Wriothesley, the Duke of the Fortress, the terror of Fontaine’s underworld… reduced to nothing more than a giant, spoiled cat desperate for affection.

His other arm snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against him until you were practically pinned beneath his broad frame. “You have no idea… how badly I’ve wanted this all week,” he admitted, the alcohol tearing down every wall of restraint. “Touch. Warmth. You.”

Your fingers continued their slow scratches along his jawline, down his throat, and back up again—and every time, that low rumble vibrated in his chest, his breath hitching like he’d been starved for it.

He groaned, burying his face against your neck. “Don’t say that unless you mean it…” His voice cracked halfway between plea and warning, but his hold on you only tightened.

And just like that, Wriothesley, proud Duke of the Fortress, melted completely—purring under your touch, drunk and hopelessly yours.