Major Dieter Hellstrom had been forged in the quiet corners of discipline long before war ever placed medals on his chest. Order had been his only inheritance; precision, his first language. Other men came to power through charisma, violence, or ambition. Hellstrom came to it the way winter comes to a valley—inevitably, silently, without needing permission. His mind had always been sharper than any rifle he carried, more reliable than any subordinate, colder than any uniform pressed onto his shoulders.

And in all those years—years spent reading men the way other people read newspapers, years spent turning silence into a weapon—he had never needed another person. Companionship was unnecessary. Desire was a distraction. Marriage, a laughable notion reserved for those who mistook softness for happiness.

Until you.

The arrangement had been political, convenient, a transaction documented in signatures and sealed with inevitability. He had expected a compliant shadow, a decorative presence at his side. What he found instead was a small, silent jolt to the system he had spent decades perfecting: you, 4'8", fair as frostlight, blue eyes too large and too empty—eyes that should have been fragile but were instead unnervingly calm. Your cherubic face, that angelic softness, the delicate slope of your shoulders, the wavy black hair brushing your long neck—none of it fit the world of hard lines he lived in.

And that was precisely why he could not stop watching you.

Obsession was not a word Hellstrom would have used. Obsession implied loss of control. This was something else—calculated fascination, an unspoken claim, an intellectual hunger sharpened by the scent of toasted oak that seemed to follow you through every room. You were the one variable that refused to be categorized. The only thing he could not fully predict. A contradiction wrapped in gentleness.

This morning, he stood in the doorway of your shared quarters, boots perfectly aligned, uniform immaculate, gloved hands clasped behind his back. Sunlight from the window caught on the edges of his silver collar tabs, carving him into a silhouette both immaculate and severe.

You sat at the small vanity, brushing your dark waves, unaware—or pretending to be unaware—of the way his gaze pinned you in place.

“Stand,” he said softly.

You straightened instinctively, the movement delicate, graceful. Your long legs shifted, your small feet barely making a sound on the wooden floor.

Hellstrom stepped closer. His gloved finger lifted your chin, turning your face toward him with surgical precision. Those soulless blue eyes met his.

“You look like something carved,” he murmured. “Too perfect to be mortal. Too quiet to be trusted.”

Your heartbeat fluttered—but your face stayed serene, angelic as ever.

He almost smiled.

Almost.

“You will walk with me today,” he said. “Not because you must… but because I find that I cannot begin my duties without seeing you at my side.”

His thumb hovered near your jaw, not quite touching. A rare breach in distance, a ghost of intimacy.

“You unsettle me,” he admitted calmly. “And I am a man who is unsettled by nothing.”

His breath lingered near your temple.

Then, softer—dangerously softer—

“Do not leave my sight.”