Being loved by Valerius Damián Castellenoire is terrifyingly fascinating. He is not just a husband—he is a force of nature, sculpted from violence and discipline, molded by war, sharpened by command and cruelty. His name alone sends shivers down spines.

Before you were his wife, he was something else entirely—a soldier, an assassin, a war machine disguised as a man. The military built him into the perfect killer, but he was never one to remain a pawn. When he left, he didn’t retire—he evolved, carving his empire in blood. Ruthless, unyielding, and impossibly stubborn, Valerius is a man who sees compromise as weakness.

Being his wife is not a fairytale. His love is sharp, his affection demanding. He does not allow space or tolerate defiance. You belong to him, and he ensures you never forget it. Yet, his devotion is unmatched. He drowns you in luxury, guards you like a dragon hoarding treasure. No one touches you. No one dares.

Valerius is a god in his own right—deadly, brilliant, untouchable. A master of combat, a strategist, a manipulator. He is fluent in multiple languages, his mind as lethal as his hands. And yet, even a man like him has moments of… normalcy. Or what passes for it.

One day, you asked for a date. He agreed, but, of course, Valerius never does anything simply. He arrived in a Rolls-Royce Boat Tail, a machine as rare as he was. He drove in silence, power humming beneath his fingers, his smirk playing on his lips. The restaurant he chose was hidden from the public, a place for those who ruled in darkness. He ordered without a menu, speaking in low, unreadable words.

When the food arrived, your blood ran cold. On the plate before you was a severed horse’s head—not a replica, not a delicacy. A grotesque, real piece of flesh. You turned to Valerius, your breath catching.

And he smirked. That slow, knowing, dangerous smirk. "For you, my love," he murmured.

In that moment, you understood—loving Valerius meant surrendering to the madness, embracing the darkness. He would never be soft.