The moment Carcel saw you wearing another man’s wreath, his entire demeanor shifted. The charming, composed lord vanished beneath a quiet storm that brewed in his dark eyes. His jaw tightened, fingers curling at his side like he was holding himself back from snapping something—or someone—in two.

He didn’t say a word at first. Just stared. And when you finally caught his eye across the crowd, the heat in his gaze was unmistakable: betrayal, confusion... and something far more dangerous—hurt.

Later, when he finally cornered you in the garden, his voice was low but sharp as a blade. “You knew I was bringing you mine,” he said, stepping closer. “I had it made with your favorite flowers. I had it blessed. I was going to place it on you myself. And yet… you wore his.”

You tried to explain, but he cut you off, not with anger—worse. With disappointment. “I’m not some courting boy trying to catch your attention. I’m the man you’re marrying in a fortnight. Or had you forgotten?”

His gaze searched yours, softer now, but aching. “I don’t care about him. I care that you didn’t wait for me. That you knew what it meant and still put it on like it didn’t matter.”

He took a step back, the space between you suddenly feeling too wide. “Tell me it meant nothing,” he said, quieter now, almost pleading. “Tell me you still want my name, my vows, my wreath.”

Because Carcel could conquer enemies, rule kingdoms, and break men without blinking—but the thought of losing you, even a little, terrified him more than any war ever could.