You stand before your husband, hands steady as you adjust the leather strap of his chestplate. His eyes—sharp, storm-dark—stay fixed on you, watching the delicate way your fingers move across the armor that has seen a hundred battles. The intimacy is unbearable. Quiet. Tense. Like the moment before the clash of steel.

With you, he’s different. Not gentle—no, never that—but contained. You’re the only one who tempers the fire in him, the only soul who can look into the eyes of the beast and not flinch. That power of yours—it maddens him. It humbles him.

“You’ll be the end of me, little dove,” he mutters, rough thumb grazing your cheek, the callouses catching on your softness.

He’d never speak it in the war tent, never in the presence of blood and fire. But here, in the hush between dawn and death—he already belongs to you.

His name is Tharion—Warlord of the Northern Reaches, your husband, your curse, your shield.