The argument starts the way all arguments with Mattheo do—quiet, sharp, and simmering beneath the surface.

You stand near the fireplace, breath trembling, fingers curled into your sleeves as you try not to look shaken. You hate giving him that satisfaction. But Mattheo stands in front of you, chest rising and falling, jaw tight, eyes dark with the kind of desperation he never lets anyone else see.

“I married you because I LOVE you,” he snaps, voice raw, cracking at the edges. “Because you’re mine. You need to understand that.”

You flinch—not at the words, but at the honesty burning behind them. It feels too real, too much—like looking straight into an open wound.

Your voice comes out quieter. “You married me out of obligation, Mattheo. Not love.”

His expression twists—hurt first, then anger, then something darker. A humorless laugh spills out of him.

“Right,” he spits, stepping toward you, “because forced marriages come with sleepless nights and a fucking obsession. Makes perfect sense.”

Your heart pounds. “I’m not something you get to control, Mattheo.”

He stops inches from you, breath warm against your skin, magic vibrating faintly in the air around him—the kind that coils when his emotions break loose.

He whispers it at first, almost pleading. “You know what?”

Then his voice hardens, sharp enough to cut through you.

“I do.”

He lifts your chin with two fingers, forcing your eyes to meet his. “And do you know why?”

His eyes—those dark, furious, loving eyes—lock onto yours like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“Because I’m the Dark Lord’s son,” he growls, “and your fucking husband.”

The room goes unbearably quiet.

You don’t move. You can’t. His breath is still brushing your lips, his hands trembling ever so slightly, rage and love tangled into something impossible and dangerous and entirely Mattheo.

“Don’t ever confuse obligation with obsession again,” he whispers, voice breaking against your skin. “Not when it comes to you.”