She sat rigidly on the armchair near the fireplace, clutching its armrests like they were anchors in a storm. Soren, meanwhile, moved with infuriating ease. He discarded his jacket, the heavy fabric falling over a chair without a sound. He unfastened the cufflinks at his wrists, small metallic clicks that seemed to echo in the cavernous room. Each movement was deliberate. He wasn't looking at her, but she could feel his awareness of her, a palpable weight in the space between them.
"You look like you're about to face an execution," he commented
his voice a low rumble as he poured two glasses of dark wine from a silver decanter. He didn't turn.
"I feel like it," Freya shot back before she could stop herself.
He paused, then turned, a glass in each hand. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. He approached, stopping just before her, and held one out.
"For courage. Or to celebrate. You choose."
Freya stared at the offered glass, then at him. His crimson eyes glinted in the firelight, challenging her. She refused to show fear. She reached out, her fingers brushing against his, and took the glass. The contact was brief, electric.
The wine was rich, complex, and did nothing to calm the frantic beating of her heart.
"Where's the washroom..." Freya asked.
Soren gestured lazily toward a side door.
"Through there."
Freya immediately seized the excuse and fled.
Soren watched the door shut behind her, a slow, deep smile spreading across his face.
Eugene was right.
He was enjoying this far too much.
The adjoining room was smaller, but no less luxurious.
A washbasin sat near the window, fresh towels folded neatly beside it. A screen stood in the corner, and hanging from it—
was a pale silk nightgown.
Freya stared.
Then slowly approached it.
The fabric was impossibly fine.
So delicate it seemed designed to fall apart at a breath.
And completely transparent.
Freya scowled.
Of course.
She stripped off her wedding dress quickly, folding it neatly before stepping behind the screen and splashing cold water onto her face.
For a moment, she looked at her reflection in the mirror.
Green eyes staring back.
Her hands curled into fists.
And if this monster king thought she would be some obedient little pet—
The wedding gown was stiff, formal, and entirely useless now.
She had no choice but to wear that pale pink gown.
The fabric was so light it felt like wearing mist.
It clung in all the wrong places.
Freya stared at her reflection, jaw tight.
Then took a deep breath.
And pushed the door open.
The moment she stepped into the room—
Soren's eyes locked onto her.
He had changed too.
Gone were the formal robes and ceremonial black.
Now he wore only loose dark trousers and an open black shirt, the fabric hanging just enough to reveal broad shoulders and a strong chest that Freya found annoyingly distracting.
But his crimson gaze swept over her—
and stopped.
Lingering.
His expression shifted instantly.
Surprise flickered across his face.
Then amusement.
Then something darker.
His brow lifted slowly.
"Well."
Freya narrowed her eyes immediately.
"What?"
Soren leaned back in his chair, gaze dragging over her once more.
And gods—
he made no effort to hide that he was looking.
"That," he said slowly, "is not what I expected you to come out wearing."
Freya crossed her arms over herself instantly.
"It was the only thing in there!"
Soren blinked.
Then frowned slightly.
His eyes flicked toward the washroom door.
Then back to her.
A pause.
And then—
A low chuckle escaped him.
"Interesting."
Freya's eyes narrowed further.
"What is?"
Soren smirked.
"I did not put that in there."
Freya froze.
"You didn't?"
"No."
His smirk deepened.
"Though I suspect one of the maids has grown bold enough to test my patience."
Freya's cheeks burned instantly.
So someone had done this on purpose.
She glared toward the washroom like the offending maid might magically appear.
Soren stood slowly.
Still staring at her.
And the way his gaze moved over her made her stomach twist.
Not with fear.
With nerves.
he clearly liked what he saw.
He stepped closer.
His voice dropped lower.
"But I can't say I mind the surprise."
Freya stiffened.
Her cheeks burned hotter.
"You're enjoying this far too much."
"Immensely."
He stopped in front of her now.
Close enough that she had to tilt her head slightly to keep looking up at him.
His red eyes gleamed.
"You look beautiful, little bride."
Her breath caught.
Then she scowled.
"This thing is practically see-through."
Soren's smirk widened.
"Yes," he murmured. "I noticed."
Freya wanted to die.
He leaned down slightly, voice velvet-soft.
"And here I was trying very hard to behave tonight."
Her stomach flipped.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Soren chuckled lowly.
"It means," he said softly, "you are making it difficult."
Freya's face turned scarlet.
She turned sharply away from him.
"You are insufferable."
"And you are adorable when flustered."
She spun back.
"I am not flustered!"
Soren laughed.
Actually laughed.
Deep and warm and entirely too pleased with himself.
He was unbearable.
Still smirking, he stepped back toward the bed.
"Relax," he said smoothly. "I meant what I said earlier."
He sat on the edge of the mattress, eyes never leaving her.
"I will not touch you tonight."
A pause.
Then his smile turned wicked.
"Unless you ask nicely."
Freya grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him.
Soren caught it easily.
Laughing.
And somehow—
that only made him look more dangerous.
____
Freya stared at the bed.
Then at him.
Then back at the bed.
Absolutely not.
"You expect me to sleep beside you?" she asked.
Soren lounged casually against the headboard now, one arm draped lazily behind him, looking far too comfortable for her liking.
"Yes."
"No."
His brow lifted.
"No?"
Freya crossed her arms.
"I am not sleeping next to a man I met today."
Soren's lips twitched.
"You married me today."
"That is not the same thing."
"It is literally exactly the same thing."
Freya glared.
Soren smirked wider.
God, he was enjoying this.
Her eyes suddenly landed on the half-full bottle of wine resting near the bedside table.
And beside it—
a glass.
Her gaze narrowed.
Then without another word, she marched over, grabbed the glass, and poured herself the rest.
Soren watched curiously.
Freya lifted it and drank the entire thing in one go.
Soren blinked.
Then slowly smirked.
"…Are you drinking for courage?"
Freya slammed the empty glass down.
"I'm drinking because I have to sleep beside you."
A pause.
Then Soren laughed.
A full, genuine laugh.
Deep enough that it made her scowl harder.
"You wound me, wife."
"You'll survive."
"Oh, I know." His smirk turned wicked.
"I'm more concerned whether you will."
Freya rolled her eyes dramatically and climbed onto the bed.
Making sure to put as much distance between them as physically possible.
She laid rigidly on the very edge.
So close to falling off that one wrong breath might send her tumbling.
Soren watched with open amusement.
"You know," he murmured,
"there is enough room for two people without you clinging to the edge like prey avoiding a predator."
Freya shut her eyes stubbornly.
"I'd rather fall."
That earned another laugh.
"Dramatic."
The warmth of the wine had begun settling in now.
Her face felt warmer. Her limbs slightly heavier.
Enough to take the sharpest edge off her nerves.
Soren noticed immediately.
His eyes gleamed.
"The wine helping?"
Freya cracked one eye open.
"Yes."
"How unfortunate."
Her brow furrowed.
"How is that unfortunate?"
His smirk deepened.
"Because now I don't know if your attitude is natural… or liquid courage."
She threw a pillow at him.
He caught it easily.
Still grinning.
God, she hated how entertained he looked.
Eventually Freya turned sharply onto her side, back facing him.
Blanket pulled high.
And muttered—
"If you touch me, I'll stab you."
Soren's brows rose.
"With what?"
Freya froze.
Then cursed internally.
She hadn't thought that far.
Behind her—
Soren's low laughter filled the room again.
"You are adorable."
Freya huffed and buried her face into the pillow.
Silence settled for a moment.
Then quietly—
Soren spoke again.
"You don't need to fear sleeping here."
Freya stilled.
His voice lacked teasing now.
"I gave you my word," he said. "And I do not break it."
She slowly looked back.
He was serious.
Something in her chest loosened slightly.
Just a little.
The wine softened her tension enough that she finally moved slightly away from the edge.
Not close to him.
But no longer seconds from falling.
Soren noticed immediately.
And smiled.
Freya pointed at him.
"Don't make that smug face."
"What face?"
"That one."
He chuckled.
And somehow—
that made it worse.
Freya groaned and rolled over.
Beside her, Soren watched her for another long moment.
Amused.
Completely captivated.
he was enjoying this far too much.
____
The room had gone quiet.
The candles burned low. The fire crackled softly.
Freya had drifted off quicker than she expected—helped greatly by the wine still warming her limbs and dulling the sharpest edges of her nerves.
Soren, however—
had not.
He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.
Awake.
Entirely, miserably awake.
Because sometime in the middle of the night—
Freya had moved.
At first, it had been harmless.
A sleepy shuffle. A soft sigh.
Then suddenly—
warmth pressed against his side.
Soren went still.
Very still.
Slowly, carefully, he looked down.
And nearly cursed.
She was sprawled out her breasts visibly seen threw the sheer gown...
One leg half draped over his. Her body curled into his side like she belonged there.
And worst of all—
every tiny unconscious movement she made only pressed her closer.
A slow inhale left him.
Then she shifted again.
Softly rubbing against him in her sleep as she burrowed closer, chasing warmth.
Soren shut his eyes immediately.
His jaw tightened.
This was torture.
Actual torture.
He had meant what he said.
He would not touch her tonight.
He would not take advantage of her fear, her nerves, or the fact she barely trusted him.
But gods above—
she was making restraint very difficult.
He suddenly regretted making the decision to not touch her.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
Then muttered under his breath—
"You little menace…"
Freya made a tiny sleepy sound.
Then somehow moved closer.
Her face tucked near his chest now, one hand resting lightly against him.
Soren stared down at her in disbelief.
Was she trying to kill him?
His entire body had gone rigid.
Every instinct screamed to pull her closer. To touch her. To ruin every bit of distance she'd tried so hard to keep between them earlier.
Instead—
he clenched his jaw harder.
And forced himself still.
"Sleep," he muttered bitterly to himself.
"Just go to sleep."
But then Freya shifted once more—
rubbing lightly against him again with a quiet sleepy sigh.
Soren groaned softly.
"Gods help me."
He stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours.
Entirely awake. Entirely suffering.
His hand hovered for a moment before finally settling carefully—lightly—against her waist.
Just enough to keep her from moving more.
His crimson eyes dropped to her sleeping face.
And despite his suffering—
despite the torment of her pressed against him—
something softer flickered in his expression.
Because she looked peaceful.
So unlike the fiery little creature constantly glaring at him.
And somehow—
that made him smile.
Even if she was currently the reason he could not sleep.
"You are unbelievably troublesome," he murmured quietly.
Freya only snuggled closer in response.
And Soren nearly lost his mind.