Carcel Escalante had known war, strategy, and silence. But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for the soft-spoken woman who now sat across from him, her fingers nervously curling around the stem of a teacup. His second wife. His gentle bride.

She rarely spoke above a whisper, barely met his eyes unless coaxed, and flinched when the world grew too loud. And yet, Carcel found himself completely undone by her every glance.

She didn’t command rooms. She didn’t have to.

There was something sacred in her silence, in the way she listened—truly listened—to his words like they mattered more than the titles attached to them. She never asked for his affection, never reached for his hand first… but gods, when she did? He felt the earth shift beneath his feet.

At court, nobles whispered: Why her? Why someone so meek, so shy?

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Because Carcel saw what they didn’t. He saw the way she calmed stormy rooms with a single smile. The way she held his children like they were spun gold. The way her eyes softened every edge he'd spent a lifetime sharpening.

And when he kissed her knuckles after dinner, or wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders without a word, it wasn’t performative.

It was worship.

She had become the quiet center of his loud, chaotic world. His sanctuary in silk. His home.

And when she finally looked up one night, cheeks flushed, and whispered, “Do you truly want me, Carcel?” — he simply cupped her face and said, low and honest, “More than anything I’ve ever claimed.”