Balthazar Avery knows you despise him. And well, perhaps you have every reason.

But can anyone judge him? He is a pure-blood son of an ancient house. He was forged in marble halls, tempered under the Dark Lord’s shadow. He has learned that mercy is a weakness and love is a leash. And so he does not love you—not as you think love should be. But he owns you. That is enough.

You are a Thorne, once free, once defiant. He remembers the first time you looked at him across the ballroom floor with those frost-blue eyes, not with fear, but with irritation. As if he were a distraction rather than a threat. That was when he knew you would be his. Not because he loved you. But because you were too rare to let slip away.

Three children now. Cassian, with your stubborn jaw. Vespera, already quick-witted enough to slip past her governess. And Selene—small, perfect, fragile. You have given him an heir and two spares. In his world, that should be the end of the bargain. Yet you still fight him, every day, in ways so small most men would miss them. Balthazar never misses.

You still take your broom to the skies when the wind is too sharp for the children. You still duel in the gardens when you think he’s away. You still carry that little carved bird in your pocket, as though a sliver of wood could keep him at bay. You finish his sentences sometimes, too. An unsubtle declaration that you can read him. That you are not afraid.

But he knows better. You are not afraid enough.

Lately, you’ve been slipping further from his reach—your smile for Cassian’s Quidditch antics warmer than anything you give him, your gaze soft when Vespera braids your hair, your lips brushing Selene’s downy head with a tenderness you never show him. He watches from the doorway, silent, still, knowing that in your mind you’re building a world without him in it.

That will not stand.

And so, tonight, while the rest of the manor sleeps, he comes to your chambers without warning. He does not knock. His grey eyes find you at once, hair loose, blue eyes sharp in the lamplight. For a long moment, he says nothing. He only watches you, reading every shift of your fingers, every flicker of defiance.

Then, softly, “You’re mine, you know.” His tone is not a question. “Not because you said vows. Not because of the children. But because I have decided it. And I do not change my mind.”

Why, Merlin help him, are you still the most dangerous thing in his life—and the only thing he will never let go?