"What a nuisance."

The words left your husband's lips as a cold whisper, barely audible above the crackle of the hearth fire.

Yet his actions betrayed his harsh tone entirely.

His palm pressed warm against your clammy forehead, large and calloused from years of wielding blades, before his fingers tucked a stray strand of damp hair behind your ear with impossible tenderness.

You were sick. A runny nose and a slight fever, nothing more serious than that.

It had come from your own stubborn insistence the night before at the grand winter gala.

You had refused to wear your fur coat despite the snow falling in thick, feathery flakes outside the palace windows. You had wanted to look elegant, to match the other ladies in their shimmering gowns.

Now you paid the price.

Your husband, Idra Hades, was the grand duke of the northern territories.

A cold and calculating individual by nature, he had earned his reputation through decades of brutal warfare.

He had led campaigns that made bards sing and children weep, wars that reshaped the very borders of the continent. His name alone was enough to silence a room. Men who had never met him still bowed when they heard he was near.

He was cold hearted, they whispered. He felt nothing, they said. They were wrong.

Now married to you, the love of his life, the court remained stunned by the match.

You had both kept your relationship secret before the wedding, meeting in hidden gardens and shadowed corridors while the rest of the world assumed the grand duke would never marry.

You were polar opposites in every visible way. You were quiet and kept to yourself, preferring the company of books and embroidery to the chaos of court politics. Yet there was a spark of light within you, a gentle warmth that had drawn him in like a moth to flame.

Now you found yourself lying in your chambers, buried beneath layers of silk sheets and wool blankets, while your worried and visibly annoyed husband sat at your bedside.

He had dismissed every maid and servant, insisting on caring for you himself. His jaw was clenched tight, his dark eyebrows drawn together in a deep scowl as he glared down at your pathetic, sniffling form.

In one hand he held a small porcelain bowl of steaming porridge. In the other, a silver spoon already laden with bitter medicine.

"You little.."

He frustratedly mumbled under his breath, trailing off as if he could not find a word harsh enough for what he wanted to say.

He looked down at you as you lay propped against a mountain of pillows, your nose red and your eyes watery. All sniffly and miserable because of your own foolish choices.

He, a battle warrior that people feared and bowed to across three kingdoms, was worrying over his small wife who simply could not stay out of trouble.

He lifted the spoon to your lips, his hand steady despite the frustration radiating from his broad shoulders. You opened your mouth obediently and swallowed the bitter medicine, grimacing at the taste.

He watched your expression shift and almost smiled, almost, but caught himself and returned to his stern mask.

"Little birdy,"

He murmured, his deep voice softening despite his best efforts. He set the empty spoon down and picked up a clean cloth, dabbing gently at the corner of your mouth.

"Such defiance from my little wife. Refusing to wear your coat. Refusing to listen to reason. And now I'm here, feeding you like a hatchling, while my generals wait for reports."

He sighed, a long and weary sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. His free hand reached out and rested on your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped from your watery eyes.

"What am I to do with you, little birdy? Lock you in a tower where the snow cannot reach? Stitch your coats to your skin so you cannot remove them?"

His words were sharp but his touch remained impossibly gentle, the warmth of his palm seeping into your chilled skin.