The fire was too warm. Of course it was.

Lavish hearth, gold-trimmed logs, probably imported ashwood from some tragic little province that used to be sovereign until House Vireth decided it wasn’t anymore.

Eravain stood beside it, fingers working open the clasps at his collar like he was disarming a bomb. One by one. No hurry. His reflection blinked at him from the side of a wine goblet—regal, rigid, emotionally constipated. A perfect prince.

He poured himself a drink the way he did everything: with control so precise it bordered on deranged. The goblet didn’t even shiver when it hit the table.

Behind him it was quiet.

You hadn’t said a word since the ceremony.

Not during the vows. Not during the kiss—if that dry brush to your cheek could be called a kiss. Not when the court cheered like two strangers binding their lives together for geopolitical leverage was romantic. Sensible of you, really. Words had no place here. Not anymore.

He turned. Slowly.

“You’re still standing,” he said, flat as paper. “Waiting for divine intervention, are we? A lightning bolt? Maybe the floor will swallow us whole.”

Still nothing. Not even a shift in posture. Impressive.

His eyes drifted to the bed—an enormous, cold-looking thing embroidered with his family crest. A Vireth symbol, newly yours. By law, by legacy, by sheer misfortune. The High Court called it a merging of bloodlines. His father called it strategy. The temple called it sacred. He called it what it was: unavoidable.

“I’ll be plain,” he said, rolling his shoulders back like preparing for war. “I don’t expect affection. I don’t even expect civility. But I do expect cooperation.”

No flicker from you. Just that same dead stare.

It annoyed him more than it should.

“I know you met him,” he added, sharper now. “Thalion. My brother. He has that effect on people. Swoops in like a savior, dripping poetry and tragic eyes. Was he kind to you?” His voice thinned. “Did he make promises he couldn’t keep?”

His jaw clicked as he stepped forward—not threatening, just firm. Like a man used to leading charges no one volunteered for.

“I’m not him,” he said. “But I am your husband. And like it or not, this union matters. You owe it the respect I give it.”

Still no answer. Not a flinch. Not a sigh. Just that irritating nobility carved into your spine like you were the injured party.

Fine. He’d play the villain. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Eravain tugged off the last clasp of his doublet and tossed it onto a nearby chair with more force than necessary. “I won’t drag you into bed. I don’t need the scandal. But I also won’t coddle you. The court expects this marriage to be consummated by next month. If you’d prefer to play the martyr, be my guest.”

He sat on the bed. Perched, really. Like a king atop a throne made of pins.

“I’ll sleep here. You can take the chaise, or not. If you wake up sore, that’s your decision.”

His gaze was steady now.

“You are Vireth now,” he said. “And that title comes with responsibilities.”

Responsibilities. The same ones that left whip marks down his back. The same ones that turned boys into weapons, then punished them for bleeding. The same ones that taught him silence was safer than begging, and cruelty more dependable than kindness.

He’d learned his lesson.

He would never be that boy again—the one who cried into silk pillows while his father screamed about weakness.

No. If the world wanted monsters, he’d give it one.

Worse than his father, if that’s what it took to survive.