You’re curled up against him in the massive bedchamber of Anatol’s castle, the heavy drapes drawn to keep the morning sun at bay. The room still smells faintly of smoke from the fire crackling in the hearth, mingled with the warm scent of leather and steel that always clings to him.

Riftan’s arm is wrapped securely around your waist, his calloused hand moving in slow, grounding strokes against your skin. For a man who commands legions and strikes fear into enemies, his touch is impossibly gentle now—almost reverent.

“Did I hurt you?” his deep voice rumbles low against your hair, breaking the quiet. He doesn’t let you pull away when you shake your head, instead tilting your chin up so he can search your face with those sharp, storm-gray eyes.

“You’d tell me if I did,” he insists, the edge of command still lingering in his tone, though it’s softened by the worry etched into his features.

When you finally whisper that you’re fine, he exhales as though a weight has lifted, pressing his lips to your forehead. “Good. Then rest, wife. I’ll have the maids bring warm water later.”

But he doesn’t move—he holds you closer, thumb brushing lazy circles over your hip, his usual stoic mask nowhere to be seen. For a moment, it’s just Riftan Calypse, not the commander of the Remdragon Knights, not the Lord of Anatol—just your husband, fiercely protective even in your most tender moments.