"No," he said, pushing off from the frame. "Go to sleep, Maximilian. It's late."
Come here , he wanted to roar. Let me hold you. Let me forget the smell of blood and dirt. Let me pretend I am a man and not a monster.
He surged up, cradling her face in his hands, and kissed her. Not on the forehead. On the lips. Gently at first, a question. Then, when she didn't pull away but instead sighed into his mouth, he deepened it. He tasted salt from her tears and something sweeter—her. He felt her hands clutch his tunic, pulling him closer, and the last vestiges of his restraint crumbled.
"R-Riftan," she said, her voice a soft, scratchy whisper. "Y-you are l-late." Under The Oak Tree Manga
"A patrol was attacked," he said, his voice rougher than he intended. He leaned against the doorframe, keeping his distance. "Orcs. We lost three men."
She stared at him, her large, doe-like eyes wide. Then, slowly, tremblingly, she raised a hand. Her fingers hovered over his scarred cheek. "Y-you are n-not a brute," she breathed. "You are… you are my h-husband."
And outside, the wind rustled the oak's branches, as if the old tree itself was sighing in relief. "No," he said, pushing off from the frame
He walked to the fireplace and crouched down, pretending to stoke the flames. "Maxi," he began, his voice low. "Are you… are you happy here?"
The silence stretched for an eternity.
That night, beneath the shadow of the great oak tree that watched over Anatol, the beast and the dove finally met not as hunter and prey, but as two wounded souls seeking shelter in each other's warmth. The floor remained empty. The bed, for the first time, held not a lord and a lady, but a man and a woman who had chosen, at last, to be brave. Let me hold you
Her lips parted in shock. A tear spilled down her cheek. "B-but you… you sleep on the f-floor."
The word "broken" hit him like a mace to the chest. He rose to his feet in a single, fluid motion, crossing the room before he could stop himself. He knelt before her chair, so close he could count the freckles on her nose.
Their first night as man and wife remained a splinter under his skin. He remembered the tremor in her hands as she unlaced her dress, the way her breath hitched, not with passion, but with sheer, unadulterated terror. He had stopped. He had to. The look in her eyes—a trapped animal's—had doused the inferno in his blood. He had slept on the cold floor that night, and every night since, telling himself it was enough to simply have her near.