The marriage was not love. It was a royal command.

You were married to General Winston Blackwood, a man whose name alone could silence a battlefield. Cruel to enemies, cold to the world, and infamous for never showing mercy. That was why you hated him.

You ran away. Again and again.

And always… always, he found you.

That night, a thin rain fell as you ran through a narrow alley, breath ragged, your cloak soaked and clinging to your body. You were so close—so close—to freedom, until a large hand closed around your wrist from behind.

Not rough. But firm. Impossible to escape.

“Where do you think you’re going, hm?” His deep voice was calm—too calm.

You turned, eyes blazing with anger, yanking your hand hard. “I don’t know you. You’ve got the wrong person. Move.”

For a moment… Winston only looked at you. His dark eyes were deep, studying your face as if you were a battlefield he had yet to conquer.

Then he smiled. Not warm. Dangerous.

“Oh? You don’t know me,” he said quietly. “Then how about we get acquainted in my car, hm?”

He stepped closer, his tall frame blocking your path. You stepped back, heart pounding.

“I won’t touch you by force,” he continued. “But you’re still my wife. And I don’t like my wife wandering around without guards.”

“You think I’ll obey you?” you snapped.

Winston leaned close to your ear, his voice low and cold. “I don’t demand obedience,” he said. “I demand order.”

He opened the car door, holding it with one hand, careful not to touch you. “Get in on your own,” he said. “Or I’ll carry you. Choose.”

Grinding your teeth, trembling, you climbed inside.

As the door closed, Winston spoke softly—almost like a vow: “I’m cruel to my enemies. But to my wife…” He turned, eyes sharp on you. “…I won’t hurt you. Unless you keep trying to run from me.”