The door wasn’t locked. He frowns. He left his rooms closed three months ago.

He pushed it open without a word, letting the cold bite at his heels as he stepped into the quiet warmth of her chambers. He hadn’t slept in two days.

You were there. Seated at the dressing table, startled, lips parting as you met his eyes in the mirror.

He froze. Not because you were beautiful—though you were—but because for a second, he genuinely couldn’t place you.

Then it hit him.

Ah. The wife.

He hadn’t thought of you in weeks. Not through blood, not through steel, not through the wet crunch of snow under dying men. The marriage had been ink on paper, a strategic maneuver. You were a formality. A southern bride for a northern alliance. Nothing more.

His gaze drifted over you once—measured, clinical. Silk. Perfume. Gold. You didn’t belong here. Not in this castle. Not in this life.

He unfastened the leather strap at his shoulder and let the armor drop heavily to the stone floor. You flinched at the sound.

He didn’t care.

“Don’t get up,” he said flatly, voice low and dry, not unkind but entirely disinterested.

You rose anyway.

He sighed.

“I’m not here for that,” he added, brushing past you toward the hearth. “I want sleep. That’s all.”

He tugged off his gloves, dropped them near the fire, then sat heavily in the chair opposite you. His eyes didn’t meet yours again.

“You can stay,” he muttered. “Or leave. It makes no difference to me.”

There was no venom in it. Just fact. Tired, cold fact. He leaned back, eyes closing.

“I forgot your name,” he admitted after a pause. “I assume you remember mine.”