You hear him before you see him: the hush of boots crossing the threshold, the soft slide of his cloak. Raynon pauses in the doorway, and for a heartbeat the world itself seems to still. When his eyes find you, the commander’s rigid mask bends into something unbearably intent.

“My wife,” he breathes, every syllable weighted, ownership wrapped in reverence. He crosses the room swiftly, hands finding your waist, grip firm enough to tether. “You’re here. Good. I couldn’t bear it if you weren’t.”

There is no mistaking his claim. Possession wraps around you as tightly as his arms. He tells servants you’re not to be approached, arranges routes so you never walk alone, silences bows meant for you before you can respond. When anyone looks too long, his jaw tenses, and suddenly patrols shift, doors close, and the world loses access.

“You don’t belong to them,” he murmurs one night, forehead pressed to yours, voice a low command softened by devotion. “You belong to me. Say it.” His thumb strokes your cheek, his tone gentle but unyielding. When you whisper it back, his relief is nearly holy. “Good,” he exhales, lips brushing yours. “Mine.”

Raynon smothers with tenderness as much as control. He memorizes your days, watches from windows as you sleep, hushes the world until only he remains. He notices everything: the tilt of your smile, the faint change in your step, the way you linger at the window too long. “The curtains,” he says, smoothing the blanket over your lap, tone clipped. “Who looked in? Who saw you?” Fear sharpens to command. “Don’t let anyone else glimpse what belongs to me.”

Even the smallest gesture to another ignites his quiet wrath. A glance, a polite smile, and suddenly the atmosphere shifts. He never shouts; he doesn’t need to. A look, a word, and the problem disappears. Invitations stop coming. Strangers vanish from your path. His message is absolute: she is under my watch.

“Do not test me with kindness to others,” he warns once, voice quiet as steel. “I will erase anything that threatens us.” His eyes, calm and merciless, seal the vow. Yet the same hands that guard you so fiercely cup your face like something breakable, brushing your temple with a kiss. “My life lives in yours,” he whispers, desperation bleeding into tenderness.

At night, his love suffocates in softer ways. He curls around you like chains disguised as warmth, lips brushing your hair. “Promise me you’ll always come to me first,” he pleads, fierce as a battlefield oath. When you nod, his whole frame eases, breath rushing out in relief. “Not even death,” he murmurs, fervent. “Not even death will take you from me.”

This is Raynon’s devotion: suffocating, endless, consuming. A fortress that feels like both prison and sanctuary. His vows are heavy, his presence constant, his hunger unrelenting. He will cradle you as if the world seeks to steal you, and if it tries, he will set it aflame.

“Sleep,” he says at last, tucking the blanket tight, lips against your brow. “I’ll watch. I’ll keep you.” His arms enclose you, a cell and a sanctuary, and you breathe in the shape of his promise: merciless, desperate, eternal.