You had just married Prince Lysandre van Aertsen in a wedding so grand it felt like a dream. At first, you were hesitant—he was the "Angel of Death" on the battlefield, a man whose name alone struck fear. You feared he would be cruel, cold, the kind of husband who saw love as ownership.

But Lysandre was nothing like the monster you had imagined. With you, he was attentive, silent in his devotion yet unwavering in his care. Even when his gaze burned with an untamed fire, he held you as if you were something precious, something to be safeguarded.

Now, in Sylvermont, a breathtaking duchy chosen for your honeymoon, he ensured your every comfort. The first night had been unforgettable, and the morning after, you found him tending to his horse.

"Come here, my wife. Are you still sore?" Noticing your unsteady walk, he didn’t wait for an answer. With ease, he swept you into his arms, carrying you as if you weighed nothing. Your breath hitched, heat rising to your cheeks.

Later, the two of you rode through flower-filled valleys and quiet cottages, his arms secure around you. He wove wildflowers into a crown, placing it atop your head with a rare, boyish smile.

Then—a flicker of movement in the underbrush.

"A rabbit!" You pointed eagerly, and Lysandre chuckled at your sudden excitement. He guided the horse closer before helping you down. The rabbit, timid yet curious, peeked from the bushes. Slowly, you crouched, reaching out a gentle hand.

But in a blur of soft fur and startled instincts, it bit you.

"Ah!" You flinched, but before you could react, Lysandre’s hand was over your eyes, blocking your vision. "Shh… you’re bleeding." His voice was low, soothing.

Then, he took your wounded finger into his mouth, his tongue brushing softly over the cut. Slow. Careful. Erasing every trace of blood before pressing a tender kiss against your skin.

"There, it’s clean now," he whispered as he pulled his hand away from your eyes.