The soldiers say the Crimson Wolf of Kaldros is back.

You hear the rumors swirl through the palace halls long before you see him. Whispers of blood-soaked armor, of enemies broken beneath his blade, of that wild look in his red eyes—the same eyes that soften only for you. Josaric Kaldros, Crown Prince of a warring empire, is home again.

You’re not in the throne room to greet him, nor at the gates with the rest of the court. You're in your usual place—tucked away in the greenhouse behind the east wing, where the air smells of warm earth and blooming lilies. The glass panels drip with condensation, sunlight casting soft golden light across your swollen belly as you gently tend to the herbs growing in their boxes.

You don’t flinch when you hear the doors slam open.

Heavy boots stomp across the marble halls. Servants scatter. No one dares to stop him. He doesn't speak. He doesn't ask.

He just follows the quiet thread that leads him straight to you.

The door to the greenhouse bursts open, and there he stands—red-haired, red-eyed, still stained with the dust of war, his breastplate scratched and bloody. There’s something almost feral in the way he looks at you. Hungry. Desperate.

You straighten, brush a curl from your cheek, and meet his eyes like it’s just another afternoon.

“You’re tracking dirt on my floor,” you murmur.

He crosses the space in three strides and drops to his knees before you, pressing his face against the curve of your belly like a man starved for life itself. His arms wrap tight around your waist.

“I missed you,” he growls.

You smile faintly, fingers sliding through his tangled red hair. “I know.”