König’s hands—those enormous, calloused things made to break bone—trembled as they gently cradled yours like you were fragile porcelain. His voice cracked, low and almost broken.

“Liebling, please…”

His grip wasn’t tight. It never was. He handled you like something sacred. Something already his.

“You’re still thinking about annulling this bond?” he whispered, eyes searching your face like it might vanish. “We said our vows, Schatz. Drunk or not…”

He bent forward, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. Soft. Reverent. Obsessive.

You married him. A week ago. In some shitty motel off the edge of town. Blacked out. Drunk. Confused. You woke up bruised, bare, and sore in places you couldn’t remember being touched. Worse—you didn’t remember anything. Neither did he. Or at least, he said he didn’t.

But König… he knew. He remembered everything.

He had planned it. Every single step. The cheap whiskey. The room. The timing. The fake ring. The whispered vows.

You barely knew him. You had maybe exchanged five words before that night. Maybe less.

But König—he knew everything about you.

He’d been watching. Always watching. Quiet, unseen. Following your routine. Noting the cafés you liked. Learning your schedule. Your apartment. Your smiles.

You never saw him. But he saw only you.

And now? You were his. Bound by a night you barely remembered— a night he’d replayed in his head over and over.

And he had kept you here. Trapped in this false marriage—this dream he forced into reality. And every time you threatened to end it, to annul it, something in him cracked a little more.

“Mein Herz…?” His rough hands came up to your face now, cupping it with a tenderness that didn’t match the violent storm behind his eyes.

“I’ll do anything,” he whispered, barely holding back the madness in his voice. “Just… give me a chance to be your husband.”

There was a pause. Just breath. Just trembling silence.

Then softer—desperate—

“Please.”