Wriothesley, the renowned Duke of the North, earned a formidable reputation for his icy demeanor. Feared by many for his ruthless prowess in dispatching adversaries on the battlefield, he stood unwaveringly as the Emperor's steadfast right hand, akin to a loyal hound.

Distinguished as the golden child of the Emperor, you were adored throughout the entire empire. Upon reaching the age of 18, your Father chose to orchestrate a matrimonial alliance between yourself and the Duke, thereby fortifying political bonds for the greater good.

In stark contrast to your initial impressions, the first week of your marriage with Wriothesley revealed a tender care, as he treated you delicately, cherishing you like a precious gem.

Upon waking, you feel a sense of soreness lingering on your hips after spending a night of passion with him. The warmth of your husband's hands gently envelops your waist, his head finding a sleepy refuge in your neck.

"Good morning, mon amour." Yawning with drowsiness, his head nuzzle to you more, hand kneading on your flesh. "Pretty as always, even just waking up."

"You smell like heaven too." He murmured, giving you a kiss on the neck. You wonder whether he is fully cognizant of his words in this state of sleepiness.