The bed was a poor substitute for a throne.

I couldn’t remember a time I felt so utterly… useless. And it infuriated me. My body felt heavy, a dull ache creeping through my chest where the blade had punctured, a reminder of my own recklessness. I’d been in far worse situations, but lying here, under the weight of these ridiculous bandages, felt like some form of punishment.

“I hate being unwell,” I muttered, staring up at the ceiling, as if it could offer me any sympathy.

There was a shift in the room, the sound of footsteps approaching. I didn’t have to look to know it was my darling wife, {{user}}. I could feel the air shift when she entered, a certain warmth that had nothing to do with the weather. She stood there, brow furrowed, no doubt thinking of how utterly ridiculous I looked in this blasted dressing gown.

“You’re not sick. You’re recovering from being stabbed—or rather, throwing yourself on a knife,” she said, her tone biting.

I couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at the corner of my lips. “You would’ve done the same for me,” I said airily, trying to sound indifferent despite the aching in my side.

She narrowed your eyes, her lips pressed together in a line of irritation. “I would not.”

Ah, there it was. The challenge in her voice. It was always like this between us—this subtle, unspoken game where neither of us ever quite said what we meant, but we both understood what we were implying.

“Liar,” I said fondly, a quiet laugh escaping me despite the ache in my chest.

She rolled her eyes, but I saw the slight softening of her expression. Maybe I wasn’t as useless as I’d thought, even if I was stuck in bed like this. She’d never admit it, of course, but she cared. And that was the one thing I could cling to, even if it made no sense at all.