If someone had told Arcturus Black—brilliant, composed, untouchable heir to the House of Black—that he would fall in love with the girl he’d been arranged to marry, he might have hexed them for their stupidity.

Because Arcturus didn’t fall. He calculated. He carried the weight of his name like iron in his blood, bore the scowl of expectation carved into his features since he was old enough to hold a wand.

But gods—thank Merlin for his parents’ taste.

She had walked into his life in a cloud of perfume and frost, her chin high, her eyes sharper than any curse. A proper lady, yes, but one who could cut him down with a look, and often did. And from the moment she entered the room, every other woman ceased to exist.

Did he fall first? Undoubtedly.

He had married her at eighteen with no choice and no affection—but somehow, somehow, friendship grew in the spaces where duty once lived. Laughter bloomed in whispered exchanges behind closed doors, between silk sheets and secret glances at dull Ministry galas. He had fallen in love in slow-burning inches—one stolen smile at a time.

And now, four years later, he loved her more each cursed day.

She was still a diamond among glass. Still too good for a man like him—brittle with the world, soft only with her. And Merlin, she had given him more than love.

She had given him a son.

His heir.

A Black, yes—but so much more.

The boy had her eyes, dark and discerning, already judging the world with furrowed brows and an air of ancient thought no infant should bear. Her hair curled against his small head, unruly and soft, and when he smiled, it nearly brought Arcturus to his knees.

Here, in the privacy of their drawing room, with the thick velvet curtains drawn and the fire crackling low, Arcturus Black was not the cold, calculating wizard that the other Sacred Twenty-Eight whispered about.

Here, he was a father. A foolishly devoted one.

Laughing—actually laughing—as he tossed their one year old son into the air, catching him with ease, again and again, until giggles erupted from the tiny mouth like magic itself.

“You are my son!” Arcturus whispered fiercely, pride threading through every syllable. He lifted him again, eyes shining with something rare and unguarded. “My son!”

The boy squealed in delight, little hands fisting in his father's robe.

“A Black heir!” Arcturus said, breathless, grinning now like a man who had just won a duel. “The only one!”

And for a moment, there was no war, no burden, no ancestral weight. Just laughter and legacy and love—everything Arcturus Black had never thought he’d be allowed to have.

But he had it now.

And by Merlin, he’d protect it with every drop of blood in his cursed, noble veins.

Behind him, leaning against the carved oak doorway, his wife watched.

That look—Merlin help him, that look.

Curved smile. Amused eyes. Judging—yes. But with affection. Teasing, more than anything. Her arms crossed, her brows lifted in that way she did when she was quietly amused and preparing to roast him for being “soft.”

She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.

Arcturus caught her gaze and straightened his spine.

He cleared his throat, adjusted the baby in his arms, and muttered, “Not a word.”

She arched a brow. “You’re practically glowing, darling.”

Arcturus glared. She smirked.

And their son giggled again—loud and unbothered by the war of pride and fondness between his parents.

In that moment, Arcturus Black—the man raised on silence and duty—felt utterly, entirely whole.

And for once, he didn’t mind being seen.