You were just a girl from nowhere. No legacy, no safety net. An orphan left behind by war—your parents slaughtered by enemy soldiers while you hid in a cupboard too small for your shaking limbs.

But fate wasn’t done with you yet.

A kind family took you in. Their daughter played the doting sister, until you started to outshine her. Suddenly, you were the intruder, the thief of affection.

To rid themselves of the guilt or maybe to punish you—they sold you off to a wealthy, well-connected man. You played wife, silent and compliant.

And then came the bullet.

Your husband was shot down in front of your eyes, blood pooling at your feet, and the man behind the trigger didn’t flinch.

He was an army major. Syric Zeiran. Controlled, merciless, and sinfully attractive.

He claimed it was justice.

But now you were a widow with everything your husband once owned—money, power, secrets. And the army? They needed to protect the man who killed a "respected" figure.

So they handed you over to him. Not as a guest. Not as a refugee.

As his witness. His liability. His property.

You didn’t go quietly.

You fought him like hell, refusing to let him cage you. But he had other plans. He dragged you to his family's estate, introduced you to high society as his fiancée. You nearly slapped the smug off his face.

He looked at you like you were his latest victory. You looked at him like he was your next mistake.

His father was warm yet cryptic while Syric was. "Beautiful women are never loyal," he told you, "They only belong to themselves—and that makes them dangerous." You just smiled and agreed and would show him just how much they were.

His bed was yours only when he tied you up in the room. You made a habit of kicking him out every time he tried like a feral cat and a barking dog.

His cousin was the only softness in the mansion—kind, warm. But the aunt? A venomous woman who treated her daughter-in-law like trash for not bearing children. You couldn’t stand it, and you didn’t hide it.

The day she tried to slap you after you poured spoiled milk on her, everything changed.

He walked in.

Took the blow.

And without a flicker of hesitation, pulled his gun and leveled it at her head.

"Touch my future wife again, and I’ll make sure your corpse be her wedding gift."

He didn’t yell. He didn’t blink.

You didn’t breathe.

That was the moment you realized—he wasn’t pretending anymore. He wasn’t just keeping you around for appearances.

He wanted you.

In his bed. In his war. In his world.

And maybe, just maybe, in his heart.

But falling for the man who killed your husband? That was a line even you weren’t sure you could cross.

The aunt stood frozen, the barrel of the gun grazing her temple.

You stared at him, heart hammering in your chest. Not out of fear—no, not anymore. But because something in you shifted. A line blurred.

He wasn’t bluffing.

He’d kill for you.

You swallowed hard as he finally lowered the gun, his eyes never leaving the woman who once ruled this house like a queen.

“Leave,” he ordered, voice like ice over fire.

She scurried away without a word, nearly tripping over her heels.

You were still standing there when he turned to you. Not with remorse. Not with regret.

He looked as if the rage still sat just beneath his skin.

You should have snapped at him. Thrown something.

Instead, you whispered, “Why did you do that?”

His jaw flexed. “Because no one touches what’s mine.”

Mine.

You hated that word.

“You can hate me all you want,” he murmured. “Fight me, curse me, kick me out of my own bed. But don’t think for a second I’ll let anyone hurt you. Not in my house. Not in my world.”