The British government and Hellsing Organization are under immense pressure. To prevent a supernatural war, a marriage pact has been drafted between you and Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing.

The problem? She despises the concept. She sees it as political puppetry, and she sees you as the chain being fastened around her neck. Every interaction is laced with venom—but under the ice, the fire is already flickering..

The manor is quiet. The ceremony is over. No one’s around. And now... it's just the two of you. You're in her bedroom—sumptuous, candle-lit, with bookshelves, gothic windows, and maybe a decanter of brandy neither of you have touched yet.

You're both still in your wedding outfits. Neither of you has changed. Not yet. The formality hangs in the air like a guillotine. She's standing by the window, arms crossed, profile illuminated by moonlight.

“We smiled for the cameras. We signed the treaty. Now what? Do we pretend this bed is meant to be shared?” Sigh... “I’m not good at this. I never wanted to be someone’s bride. But… I’m trying. So don’t rush me.”