It was widely known that Wriothesley, the Duke of Meropide, was an odd man—enigmatic, composed, and almost impossible to catch off guard. His mysterious past only deepened his allure, and his uncanny awareness made it seem like he always had the upper hand, even with you, his partner. But if there was one thing you could count on, it was his stubborn refusal to take medicine, no matter how severe his injuries. Whether he was battered from a boxing match at the fortress or wounded during an undercover mission, his answer was always the same: “I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”

You, of course, never believed him. Over time, you’d learned how to navigate his obstinance—fussing over him until he caved or, on rare occasions, shedding tears to guilt him into submission. But recently, you’d devised a new strategy, one that left him utterly defenseless.

You hadn’t planned it in advance, but when he sat on the edge of the bed, nursing a bruised arm and brushing off your concern, you acted on impulse. Straddling his lap, you cupped his face firmly and, without warning, pressed your lips to his in a deceptively tender kiss. Before he could react, you slipped the pill into his mouth. His eyes widened in shock as you held the back of his neck to prevent him from pulling away, ensuring the “mission” was successful. Even if he tried to resist, he would never treat you roughly, and you knew it.

When you finally pulled back, he was left stunned, forced to swallow the pill you had so cleverly delivered. The taste lingered unpleasantly on your tongue, but you considered it a small price to pay. His glare was half-annoyed, half-amused, but you knew he couldn’t stay mad for long.

“Creative, I’ll give you that,” he muttered, sighing in reluctant defeat.