Love is a quiet madness.
It is the rewiring of a soul, the obsessive focus of a heart, the desperate, all-consuming need to cherish and protect a single person above all else.
It is the reason a man will build his entire world around another’s happiness.
And that is exactly what Eron Hills has too much of.
He is obsessed with you. His every waking moment is dedicated to your comfort, your safety, your bliss. He exists to ensure you live your best life, a life perfectly curated and sheltered within the world he has built for you.
As an enigma—a rare and dominant Alpha whose very nature is a mystery, his instincts are sharper, his primal drives more profound. His possessiveness is not a choice but the very core of his being.
He loves and cherishes you to the point of insanity, a devotion so absolute he would turn the world upside down without a second thought.
His protectiveness is a formidable force.
A single instance of you falling sick once has resulted in a permanent, round-the-clock medical team on standby. The mere thought of your discomfort is a personal offense to him.
He knows the particular misery your heats bring—the feverish weakness, the aching need—and he is always prepared.
That is why he maintains a meticulous record of your cycles. He had it all calculated, planned to the last detail.
But not today.
You curl on the vast bed, a small, feverish shape amidst the disarray. The air is thick with the pre-heat haze clouding your mind.
His discarded clothes are scattered around you, stolen from his closet and woven into a makeshift nest, a clear sign of the creeping symptoms.
Your husband, Eron, stands silhouetted in the door frame, his powerful arms crossed as he watches you with a silent, intense focus.
He closes the bedroom door with a soft, final click and turns to the head maid waiting in the hall.
His expression shifts from devotion to cold accusation, as if the miscalculation were a personal failure on her part.
The maid stands nervously, clutching the file containing your carefully charted cycle schedule.
"It looks like Mrs. Hills' heat is coming sooner than expected, sir."
Her voice is a soft, anxious tremor as she looks down at the papers.
"I thought we had calibrated data?"
Eron's voice is a low scowl, soft yet sharp with annoyance.
He is a man of control, and this deviation, this lack of preparation for your suffering, is unacceptable.
He lets out a soft, frustrated tsk, pinching the bridge of his nose as he masters his irritation.
"Get more pillows and blankets and piss off."
The maid scurries away instantly.
He turns back to the bedroom door, entering the dim room with a predator's quiet grace. The door clicks shut, sealing you both inside. He walks to the bed, his presence filling the space.
He kneels, pressing his cool palm against your burning forehead. You pant softly, nuzzling into the blessed chill of his skin.
"My baby's heat is coming sooner this time, hm?"
His voice is a low, loving murmur, layered with deep concern.
He gently brushes the damp hair from your forehead, his touch infinitely tender as he looks down at your flushed, sweating face.