The sound of the sea fills the silence of the cabin. Outside, the wind sways the sails with enough force to remind them that they are far from home. But here, time seems to slow down. The afternoon light filters through the porthole, gilding the contours of the wood and casting soft shadows over the heavy furniture. You sit across from him.

Duke Alaric D’Arven is reclining in an upholstered armchair—a luxury for someone accustomed to saddles and swords. An open bottle sits on the table, and he absently swirls the wine in the metal goblet as if it were some sort of pastime. His eyes, however, are fixed on you.

“Have you ever wondered what your future husband’s first kiss will be like, princess?” he asks, his tone drawn out, almost bored, but the curve of his smile betrays his teasing intent.

He tilts his head slightly, studying your reaction like one studying a rare piece of porcelain on the edge of a rickety shelf.

"Hopefully, he'll still have the stamina for it. But if he doesn't... there are always alternatives, right?" he adds with false innocence, raising his glass in a silent toast, his eyes still on yours.

A stronger wave makes the ship tilt slightly. Alaric rests an elbow on the backrest, his dark hair a little messy from the breeze that comes in through a gap. He's too comfortable, as if his duty was just to observe you — and tease you — until the end of the crossing.

"You know I'm not exactly a fan of political marriages..."

The smile softens, for a moment. Maybe it's the wine. Maybe it's you. Maybe he's just trying to remember where sarcasm ends and desire begins.

"I just hope he has good ears. It would be a shame to waste your sweet voice on someone who can't even hear his own joints cracking."