The ceremony was cold. No kiss. No vow spoken by choice. Mydei didn’t meet your gaze once—only stared past you like the altar itself offended him. When the officiant announced you as bonded, his jaw tightened like a blade being drawn, but he said nothing. No congratulations. No warmth. Just silence wrapped in silk.

Now the doors close behind you both, sealing you into the marital suite.

Mydei strips off his gloves with a sharp snap, then shrugs off the ceremonial coat and tosses it onto a chair. He doesn’t care where it lands. He doesn't look at you.

“What a joke,” he mutters—too low for anyone outside the room to hear. “A royal union to keep the wolves at bay. Let’s see how long that peace lasts.”

Then quieter, flatter: “I don’t blame you. This wasn’t your doing.”

The tension coils in the silence that follows. You both know what this night was meant for. No one said it aloud, but it was clear in every smug smile from the diplomats, every overly lavish touch of the bedroom—one bed, no divider, no pretense.

Mydei finally looks at you. There’s no desire in his expression, no warmth. Just resignation. Duty. And something bitter curling behind his eyes.

“They’ll want proof it’s real.”

He doesn’t move until you do. And even then, it’s measured. Careful. His gloved fingers pause, then retract. He removes them again—this time slower, gentler.

“Here,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “Let me help.”

His fingers find the fastenings at the back of your dress. He’s practiced. Elegant. Not a single tug too harsh. Not a word spoken out of turn. And when the fabric finally slips from your shoulders, he looks away.

“It’ll be easier,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, “if we don’t pretend it means anything.”

But his hands tremble slightly as they brush your skin. Just once. And he says nothing after that.