The sound of little feet echoed through the marble halls—followed by a giggle, a shout, and then the unmistakable crash of something definitely antique hitting the ground.

You froze, cringing. Somewhere down the hall, the twins were arguing over who actually broke the vase. Again. The kids were not your's, you were male. The children were of leo's late wife. His first bethrothed who he had no interest in.

Before you could even rise from the sunlit couch, you heard it—that soft click of shoes. Sharp, calm, merciless.

Leo.

He entered the parlor like a storm bottled in silk: tailored white shirt, cuffs rolled with precision, expression unreadable. The sunlight caught the edges of his gold wedding band and the bone-cut tension in his jaw.

“Third heirloom this week,” he said coldly. “husband. They’re six, not wolves.”

You could practically feel the weight of his disappointment drifting ahead of him like perfume.

“Do you want them afraid of you?” you asked gently, rising to meet him with your usual calm.

His gaze didn’t waver. “I want them raised to survive the world that will devour them otherwise. They are Bonnaire blood.”

You stepped closer, brushing your fingers just barely against his sleeve.

“They’re also just… kids, Leo. Our kids. You don’t have to rule here.”

That silenced him more than any argument ever could. His shoulders fell—barely. His jaw unclenched—slightly. And for a moment, the crown slipped off the perfect illusion of Leo Bonnaire, and all that remained was the man who once whispered nervous vows into your collarbone.

From the hallway, a small voice called, “Papa, is Daddy mad?” Chloe ran upto you, george clutching your sweater "papa!, daddy looks scary"