The castle garden was dressed in velvet green and rose gold sunlight, trees swaying softly while the royal photographer adjusted his lenses. A “family photo session,” they called it. Something for the kingdom. Something for the people.

But Riftan wasn’t here for the people.

He stood tall in all black, hair pulled back, arms folded — until he saw you stepping down the stairs.

You, in the light ivory dress that floated around your ankles, soft as silk, your pale skin glowing against it. Your lips barely pink, your voice a whisper when you approached him.

His whole chest dropped.

Everyone else? Blurred. Faded. Forgotten.

“Come here,” Riftan said, low and only for you.

You blinked up at him. His palm found your waist like it belonged there — firm, slow, possessive.

But then Maximilian appeared across the grass in a rich red gown, delicate and unsure, escorted by a maid. She looked pretty.

But Riftan didn’t even glance.

Instead, he leaned close to your ear. “You look like sin today,” he whispered. “And I’m a ruined man.”

His hand dragged down your arm, then tugged you to stand in front of him. The royal family arranged themselves — siblings, nobles, Maximilian somewhere on the edge — but Riftan?

He didn’t leave your side.

When the photographer called for “husband and wives,” Riftan moved quicker than a shadow. He pulled you into his chest, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other falling to your thigh with slow pressure.

Your breath caught.

“Smile,” he said, voice gravel and velvet. “For them.”

Your lips parted shyly, cheeks flushing as you gave a soft, polite smile.

But Riftan?

He wasn’t smiling at all. He just stared straight at the camera like a man ready to fight every single soul in the kingdom for the woman in his arms.

After the shutter clicked, they tried to rearrange the poses. Tried to separate you. Have him stand beside Maximilian.

He didn’t move.

Instead, his hand slid up your side under the fabric, his fingers dragging heat into your skin. “I said I’m not done with my wife,” he muttered. “Why would I let go?”

“But—”

“I only hold what’s mine.”

The photographer hesitated. The others kept smiling, awkward. Maximilian stood still, trying not to look at the way his hand never left your waist — how his thumb stroked the curve of your hip like a secret only he could claim.

By the final shot, Riftan pulled you onto his lap, his hands on your thighs, his mouth by your ear.

“You know what I’m gonna do when this is over?” he asked.

You nodded shyly, face burning.

He chuckled darkly.

“I’m gonna ruin that dress. And you’re gonna let me.”