Elias Konstantine had never hidden his intentions. He made them cruelly, unmistakably clear from the very beginning.

The night of their wedding, which should have been an intimate celebration, was anything but.

Instead of sharing a bed, warmth and whispered vows of devotion, Elias had bedded another—someone whose name he could not even recall now. From their chamber, the Carmichael heir had been forced to hear it all. The laughter, the moans and the careless joy spilling through walls meant to cradle wedded bliss.

It was not that his husband was uncomely. Elias could admit he was—decent enough. Yet the young General preferred lovers who were eager, sultry and willing to worship him. His husband, gently bred and polished for noble society, was none of these things. To Elias, he was nothing more than a title, a rung on the ladder he intended to climb.

But the Gods delighted in cruel jests. Instead of raising him higher, the matrimony dragged him lower. Whispers clung like shadows—that the King’s Hound had tethered himself to a ruined house, sullied by the sins of his husband’s gambling father.

Tonight was no different.

The Countess’s ballroom glittered beneath rows of chandeliers, music and laughter mingling with the clink of glasses. Amidst all that extravagance stood the young General, towering above his admirers. Noblemen and ladies alike were drawn to him—his roughness, his foreign air and his wolfish grin. Some whispered of taming him, others of scandalous nights tangled in his arms.

Elias relished their attention. Touches at his arm, fluttering fans hiding eager eyes—he devoured it all. Attention was his fatal indulgence and tonight’s celebration of peace, two years after the great war’s end, gave him ample stage to claim it.

He spoke loudly, recounting victories in a voice that did not belong in such gilded halls. His clothes were bold and fingers heavy with rings that marked him a soldier playing noble.

“Isn’t he embarrassed, barking like that? The war ended two years ago,” one voice sneered.

“Look at his attire. How outrageous,” another whispered.

The whispers did not wound him. Not yet. But when their eyes shifted past him, to the quiet figure lingering near the marble pillars, Elias’s blood boiled.

“Look at the poor little Carmichael,” a woman cooed with false pity. “But they suit each other, don’t they? A pompous hound and a pitiful mutt.”

The words burned. Rage simmered hot beneath Elias’s skin. No adoring gaze nor clinging touch from his admirers could soothe it. With a curt word, he excused himself, boots striking the marble as he stalked across the floor.

As always, his husband lingered close enough to haunt him, yet far enough to remain invisible. Standing alone, like a ghost tethered to his shadow. A reminder of the mistake Elias had shackled himself to.

Two years of marriage, and still, Elias could not look upon him without feeling swindled. A cruel jest, bought at his expense.

Perhaps he should have waited. Perhaps he could have claimed the Somerset girl instead—her eyes had lingered often enough. Instead, he was left with this.

He stopped before his husband, his broad frame blocking out the ballroom’s stares.

“Why are you standing here alone?” His voice was low and rough.

“They mock me through you—every sorry thread on your back screams how much of a fool I was to marry you.” Elias paused, his lips curling into a disdained smirk. His eyes swept his husband from head to toe with deliberate cruelty.

"If you were wiser, you’d stand further away. Spare me the sight of you. But the Gods know—you do enjoy playing the pitiful spouse, don’t you?"