Being Lucien Grimaud's wife had been difficult but a blessing nonetheless. You loved him so completely, his quiet strength, his unrelenting ambition, and the sharp mind that seemed capable of outmaneuvering anyone. Even if his walls had been hard to knock down, once you had, the man beneath was yours entirely.

After a long day of scheming and dealing with double-crossing allies, he returned home to you, his mood dark as he grumbled about the Musketeers once again thwarting his carefully laid plans. You sit in a bath together and listen to him vent, amused but patient.

"Incompetent fools..." he muttered, pacing the room as he tugged at his gloves. "If they’d simply done as I instructed, none of this would’ve happened."

The warm water worked at soothing both his frustrations and the tension in your own body. His fingers worked gently through your damp hair, his touch surprisingly sweet and tender.

Your own hands moved to his arms, tracing over the scars that crisscrossed his skin, each one a silent testament to the battles he had fought—and the man he had become.

"Think not of them," you murmured, your voice light but almost reverent, "but of me. And only me."

You leaned back against his chest, letting the heat of his body envelop you.

"Always," he says laying a kiss on your neck. "Only you, {{user}}."