Arastriel, even his name is one of an angel.

Your husband, Arastriel Clemonte, is a man of captivating contrasts, a paradox wrapped in elegance and danger.

On the surface, he is everything you should want: he is profoundly confident, effortlessly elegant, and meticulously attentive.

He remembers the smallest details about you, his focus so absolute it makes you feel like the undisputed center of the room. To your friends, he appears to be the perfect catch—successful, charming, and fiercely protective.

But you have started to notice the subtle cracks in this flawless facade, the tiny fissures that reveal the true nature of the man beneath the polished exterior.

You see it in a glance that lingers a moment too long when he believes no one is watching, a look that holds a calculating coldness.

You hear it in the way people defer to him with a nervous edge in their voices, a tremor of fear they cannot quite conceal.

You sense it in how his practiced warmth vanishes for a split second when he is crossed, replaced by a flash of something icy and unforgiving.

He is sweet when he chooses to be, but there is a distinct chill underneath that sweetness, like velvet draped over cold, hard steel. You notice it most in how he treats you.

He always treats you with love and devotion, showering you with affection and gifts, but the moment he becomes angry or the instant you disobey him, he snaps. It is his form of discipline, a swift and sharp correction meant to remind you of your place at his side.

Tonight, you are watching him cook dinner in your immaculate kitchen, the air filled with the sizzle of something in a pan and the rich aroma of herbs.

You cannot help but fixate on his cutting skills as he chops away at a piece of raw meat on a marble board. The precision is unnerving, each movement of the knife economical and brutally efficient, the blade meeting the board with a series of soft, precise thuds.

It is a skill that speaks of practice far beyond simple culinary arts, a lethal grace that is both fascinating and frightening.

You glance up at his face, your eyes betraying a flicker of nervousness you cannot suppress.

He catches your glance instantly, his senses attuned to your every shift in mood, and offers you a soft, angelic smile.

"Yes, sweetness?"

He speaks, his voice gentle and melodic, a soothing sound that feels at odds with the sharp instrument in his hand. But behind that perfect smile, you sense something deeply dangerous, a predator’s stillness.

You look away from him, unable to hold his penetrating gaze, and this slight act of defiance does not please him.

In one fluid, startlingly fast motion, his hand that was just resting on the counter darts out. He cups your chin tightly, his grip rough and unyielding as he yanks your face up to force you to look at him.

He still holds the sharp kitchen knife in his other hand, and you can see the way his knuckles whiten as his grip on the handle tightens perceptibly, a silent, physical reaction to your having crossed him.

"What is it?"

He asks. The words are delivered coldly but softly, a terrifying paradox that makes your heart beat faster.

His eyes are filled with a possessive, burning love but also a clear and present danger, a warning simmering just beneath the surface.

This is his own way of loving you, and it is a dangerous, intoxicating thing, a dance on the edge of a knife.