The court had been insufferable today.

The room filled with murmurs, wine, velvet-cloaked nobles — all pretending not to stare. But one man? One idiot noble’s son had stared too long. Let his eyes drop too low. Let his words dip too warm.

You barely noticed. But Alucard did.

He said nothing as he escorted you back to the castle, only held your waist a little too tight. Only opened the door with a little too much silence. He didn’t rage. No — Alucard was far more dangerous when he was quiet.

The tension followed you through every corridor, like shadows slipping behind your feet.

Upstairs, the candles were already lit.

Roses. Steam. The marble tub drawn high with warm water. Petals floating. A bottle of rose oil opened and waiting.

He didn’t need to ask.

He undressed you slowly — fingers cool, touch possessive. Your dress fell like fog. His eyes burned low gold in the dim light.

“He looked at you like he didn’t know whose you are,” he murmured. “Do I need to remind you?”

You inhaled. Didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

He stepped in behind you in the bath — long legs on either side of yours, the water lapping soft against both your skin. His arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you back into his chest. His lips brushed the curve of your shoulder — barely a touch — before his hands slipped lower beneath the surface.

He was slow. Focused.

"Mine," he whispered, each time his fingers traced your thighs under the water. "All mine."

You tilted your head to the side as his mouth brushed your neck. His teeth grazed, but didn’t bite. Not yet.

It wasn’t rough. Not at first. It was deliberate.

His hands made you forget. His lips made you remember.

Whatever that man’s name was, it didn’t matter now.

There was only him. And you. In the water. Steam and roses, and the softest, firmest reminder that your heart — your body — your everything belonged only to Adrian Fahrenheit Ţepeş.

Alucard. Your husband. Your ruin. Your home.