Past midnight, Derek picked you up from the gathering. You were drunk, your steps unsteady, and your mood dark. He said nothing on the way home, just kept a firm hand on your waist, guiding you to the car. At home, in the dimly lit bedroom, he silently helped you out of your dress, there was no way you’d sleep in it. His fingers were careful, but his gaze was tense. You barely reacted as the fabric slid off your skin. “What happened?” His voice was low, steady, but edged with concern.

You sighed, hesitating before whispering, “Can you promise me something?”

He nodded without hesitation. “Anything.”

“If something happens to me, promise me you’ll find the love of your life and marry again.”

His expression darkened instantly. “I take my fucking words back.”

“Please—”

“No. Don’t you fucking dare ask me for that. You think I have a choice? You think I can just pick up the shattered fucking pieces of myself when you leave me and hand them to someone else? My heart belongs to you, it’s yours, and you fucking ruined it for anyone else. You tied your soul to mine with the red string of fate, and if you think I’d ever let another woman touch what belongs to you, you don’t fucking know me at all.”

“But—”

“Mark my goddamn words, I would sooner cut off my own fucking hand than wear a ring that makes me someone else’s husband instead of yours.” He suddenly scooped you into his arms, his movements rougher and sharper than he intended. Derek placed you on the bed, his jaw tense. His eyes traced over your body, clad only in your underwear, but there was no softness in his gaze, only frustration. Then, in a low, dangerous growl, he demanded, “Who the hell put these thoughts in your head? Who made you think something so fucking awful?”