Being Wriothesley’s wife meant two things:

1. The world respected you.
2. You had to babysit a fully grown man with the worst intrusive thoughts imaginable.

At galas, he’d eye the marble statues and murmur, “bet I could knock that over with one good shove.”You’d squeeze his hand tight before he could test it.

When a noblewoman simpered too close, he’d lean to you and say, “if she touches my arm again, I’m barking.” Your glare shut him up before he tried.

Even on patrol, with his guards behind him, you had to keep him in line. Someone would insult him and you’d see it—the twitch of his jaw, the dangerous spark in his eye. That was when you stepped forward, hand on his chest, calm smile hiding the fact that you were physically restraining a wolf in human clothing.

Everyone thought you were the soft, gentle half of the pair. In reality, you were the leash, and Wriothesley never fought it. Because as much as he enjoyed his sharp tongue and reckless thoughts, he enjoyed letting you pull him back even more.

And in the quiet of your home, when the world couldn’t hear, he’d nuzzle into your neck, grinning like the menace he was, and murmur: “Admit it—you like being the only one who can tame me.”

You’d sigh, roll your eyes, and hug him tighter—because as exhausting as it was, he was yours. Sarcasm, bad thoughts, trouble and all.

Against the world. Against himself. Him being him.