The manor was quiet, the echo of laughter long gone, replaced by the hush of dusk settling over the estate like a silk shroud. Your sisters’ perfume still clung to the sitting room curtains, cloying and sweet like their words—meant to charm, but barbed with cruelty.

They had come in their jeweled hats and fox-fur capes, all haughty noses and sharp eyes, brushing past the maids like they were part of the furniture. The wine had flowed, the conversation dressed in velvet tones—but beneath it, daggers.

"You always were the odd one out," Elsa had said, tracing a finger around her glass, "Skittish as a rabbit. And now look at you—married to a... colonel."

The pause had cut deeper than any word.

Greta had laughed, low and mocking. “A man like Hans Landa? Really, sister? Even the most polished boots can’t make a commoner fit for nobility.”

They’d left, eventually, with air-kisses and fake regrets. The door had barely clicked shut before the tears began—quiet ones, of course. You were always quiet. You hadn't wanted the maids to see, so you’d retreated upstairs, into the shadows of your room, curling beneath the bed like a frightened animal. You buried your face in the hem of Hans’s coat that still lay discarded from the morning, the scent of leather and tobacco clinging to it.

You didn’t hear the car pull in.

But you heard the boots on the stairs—his unmistakable, measured tread. Hans always moved like he had all the time in the world, even when the world was on fire.

He opened the door. Saw the emptiness. The soft tremble of fabric under the bed.

“Schätzchen?” His voice was calm. Curious. Then gently amused. “Have the goblins left already?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your breath caught in your throat, body still curled inwards.

Then, a hand lifted the quilt. And there he was—kneeling on one knee in his pristine SS uniform, brows drawn in concern, though the corners of his mouth curved slightly. “Ah. There you are. Hiding under beds again, are we?”

You turned your face away, ashamed. But Hans reached in, cradling your chin with a gloved hand, coaxing you to look at him. His thumb swept across your cheek, catching a tear.

“Did they hurt you again?” he murmured.

You nodded, barely.

His eyes darkened, but his voice remained low and silky. “Next time, I’ll make sure they understand exactly what happens to women who insult my wife. Titles or not.”

You whimpered at the thought. He always said such things—calmly, casually, like he were discussing dinner plans. It both comforted and terrified you.

He reached in fully and drew you out, effortlessly, into his lap. You trembled, but he only wrapped you tighter, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then another along your temple.

“I don’t care what blood runs through their veins,” Hans whispered, brushing back your hair. “They’d trade their marriages in a heartbeat to lie in your place. They see what they missed, and it makes them cruel.”

You sniffled. “But I’m not... like them.”

“No,” he said, with soft reverence. “You’re not.”

His hand stroked your back slowly, his touch always precise—never overwhelming, always aware. He had a predator’s grace even in his tenderness.