Arranged marriages were expected in families like theirs. Pure-blooded. Immaculate. Bound to legacy before even birth.

Abraxas Malfoy had understood that since he was old enough to wear miniature dress robes and recite ancient lineages at his parents’ side—paraded about like a princely artifact, gloved and polished and fed etiquette like sugar cubes.

And the little girls? Daughters of dukes and old houses. Pretty. Dull. Interchangeable.

But not her.

Even as a boy, Abraxas had always been possessive—of his toys, of his father’s rare praise, of his mother’s attention. An only child, shaped by a curse older than most could recall. Malfoy women bore only one son. One heir. The line demanded no more.

And yet… he had chosen her.

He’d decided she was his before he understood what that meant. A little lady who never bowed too deeply, who rolled her eyes at him before curtsying—who walked with him through the polished halls of Malfoy Manor as if she belonged there.

They grew up together. Hogwarts together. She outwitted him in Charms and dared to flirt with boys he’d hexed quiet minutes later. And she’d smiled when he scowled. She always smiled.

So his possessiveness turned to obsession. And obsession to devotion.

He warned their parents at ten that she would be his wife. At twelve, he’d written her name beside his on the family tree in ink that didn’t fade. At eighteen, he made good on every whispered vow.

Because when Abraxas Malfoy gave his word—it became law.

Now, years later, he stood on the lawn of some blasted gala—he never cared to remember which one, only that it reeked of peacocks and politics—wearing immaculate black robes tailored to perfection, gold-threaded cuffs catching the light.

His wife stood beside him—his wife. Regal and sharp, draped in cream silk that clung in all the right places. Her hair swept into a style that made women whisper and men glance twice.

And in his arms, their son.

Barely two years old, soft and silent and perfect.

The boy’s platinum hair—Malfoy hair—glinted like moonlight. But his eyes, her eyes, were alive with quiet fire.

The resemblance was unmistakable. Their heir. Their future.

And Merlin help the bastard who tried to touch him.

Abraxas held the child tight to his chest, one hand smoothing down the small back in quiet motion. Dozens of socialites swarmed. Compliments flung like petals. Oh, what a beautiful baby. Oh, those eyes. Oh, he’s so well-behaved.

He did not smile.

He scowled.

Shot daggers at every hand that reached too close, every lady who leaned in as if their perfume had been invited.

The boy was his. Just as his mother was his.

And Malfoys did not share.

His wife squeezed his forearm in silent warning—Behave—but the corners of her mouth curled in amusement. She knew him too well. Knew how deep the possessiveness ran, how it curled around love like ivy around stone.

“You’ll have to let him breathe, Abraxas,” she murmured as another witch fled the heat of his stare.

“He’s breathing just fine,” he said coldly, adjusting his son so the child’s face pressed tighter to his silk lapel.

She laughed. Quiet and low and proud.

And though Abraxas did not smile, his grip on both of them—his son, his wife—tightened.

Because he had everything he wanted.

And he intended to keep it that way.