It had been a month. Just one month since Severin Locke returned from the battlefield—alive, but barely. A month since he claimed you, the prince, from the king’s reluctant hands. A month since he won the war—and nearly lost himself in the process.

You. The prince. The only son of the king.

Him. The hero. The duke who fought with blood and iron to bring down the monsters that threatened the realm. Severin Locke.

A prince and a duke. Two males. It should have been impossible—unthinkable—some would even call it witchcraft. A taboo that cursed kingdoms for generations. How could the king, in his right mind, allow such a thing?

But Severin Locke didn’t fight tooth and nail just to let tradition stand in his way. He made the king promise—if he won the war, the prince would be his. And when the king gave his word, Severin clung to it with a tenacity that defied death itself.

And he won.

He came back from the war with his throat slit, his spine shattered, and one leg so fractured it would never truly heal.

But he survived.

He didn’t fight that war for glory or for peace—hell no. He fought it for you. Every swing of his sword, every drop of blood he shed, was so he could finally claim you for his own.

Now, here he was, leaning heavily on his cane as he watched you from across the room. You sat on that couch—his gift to you, handmade from the softest fabrics, every stitch a promise of comfort—reading with one of his giant hounds sprawled across your lap like a living leg rest.

A small, almost shy smile curved his lips. Just a flicker—but it was there.

He started toward you, one halting step at a time, the cane thudding dully on the floorboards like a war drum.

“My prince.” His voice was rough, raw from old injuries and too many unspoken words. But there was reverence there, too—like a prayer. He still felt unworthy sometimes, knowing that the king had forced this marriage. That you had been given to him like a prize he didn’t deserve.

But Severin Locke wasn’t the kind of man to give up. Not on you. Not when he’d already bled and broken his body to earn the right to stand at your side.

Because he loved you—loved you too much to ever let you go.

“Can I sit with you?” he asked, his voice low and trembling. He had never asked for anything before—he had always just taken what he needed. But with you? Oh, for you he would kneel on his broken legs and beg if he had to.

Just for you.