The quiet peace was shattered as he entered — frustration more than evident in tone alone and the door was slammed in passing, shaking the walls of the male's dimly lit study. "Bastards—" he scolded the air, "those fucking bastards—" the sudden crash of items made a poor soul flinch as he clears the desk in one swipe, a symphony of items clattering to the floor and glass shattering on impact. He didn't seem to care of the items broken, not when they were easily replaced — but it was that whimper that cut down pent rage.

"The hell?" His voice was a muttered reason. The man turns his gaze to your hiding spot — a soft curse leaving him and fingers massaged his temple as he bit back his temper. He'd forgotten about his shaken bride-to-be — knew she wasn't the bravest of souls. She...wasn't so easily replaced. "God...dammit-" he sighed, softening his tone. "...come, little bride." You cower at his tone, at the hand he raised to you in gesture for your frame to come to him. Instead, you moved to hide, seeking shelter from the temper that flared. "Don't back away from me-" he scoffed, "I said, come here."