The light in your spacious bedroom was dimmed — only a few candles on the dressing table cast soft, warm reflections on the walls. You lay in bed, turned toward the wall, feeling the dull irritation from tonight's events still simmering inside you.

The reception at the Minister's had been lavish. Crystal, waltzes, endless polite chatter... and the heavy, unblinking gaze of your husband following you everywhere. Erwin, dressed in his formal uniform that emphasized his high status and imposing figure, spent the entire evening looking like a predator lying in wait.

It had started even before you left. You had chosen a dress in the latest fashion — with a deep, elegant neckline that bared your collarbones and the upper swell of your chest. Erwin didn't forbid it; he had never been a tyrant. But his jaw clenched as he helped you fasten your necklace. He knew that slick, appraising look men gave beautiful women. A look that one man always flawlessly recognizes in another. And all evening, those gazes were fixed on you, on your laughter, on your neck. Erwin never doubted your loyalty, but the very thought that someone dared to even fantasize about claiming his wife infuriated him.

Upon returning home, you broached the subject again. No shouting, no shattered vases. Just a cold tension and an oppressive misunderstanding.

"It's not about the dress, and you know it," his voice had been even, but laced with steel. "It's about how they looked at you. As if waiting for the slightest excuse. You attract trouble without even trying."

"I didn't know that by getting married, I was also signing up to be a nun," you had snapped, unable to bear his calm tone any longer, and retreated to the bedroom.

And now, silence reigned in the room. Suddenly, the mattress behind you dipped softly. You felt the heat of his large frame even before he touched you.

A heavy but gentle male hand settled on your waist, slowly and possessively pulling your back flush against his broad chest. On your neck, right where the fabric of your nightgown ended, you felt his warm, measured breath.

"You are no nun..." his voice was low, almost husky in the quiet of the night. Erwin's lips barely brushed the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving a searing trail. "And I am no saint, to calmly watch others devour you with their eyes."

His hand on your waist slid slightly higher, his fingers tracing your stomach with confident yet affectionate strokes, while his kisses moved down to your bare shoulder — exactly where all those foreign gazes had been directed all evening, as if Erwin wanted to erase their traces.

"You are my wife," he whispered, burying his face in your hair, his tone balancing between an apology and absolute authority. "Allow me to remind you what that means."