The Hungry Tyrant's Bedroom - Chapter 3
It was a blatant lie.
She knew all too well that there was no way he would want her.
Floria had spent most of her life growing up in the royal palace. Let alone Grand Duke Aidan—she had hardly given the people of Altomole a chance to see her.
There was no way he would want me.
No man in the world desired someone like the ‘virtuous Floria.’ It was clear that her father had lied, not because he wanted her, but because he refused to send her sister, Helia, in his stead.
“Father, please.”
For the first time in her life, she placed her pale, slender hand over her father’s. But as if he had touched something dirty, he immediately shook her off.
“It is already decided.”
Resistance was useless. The voice that had once been so kind fell cold and sharp.
“As soon as preparations are complete, you will leave for Sieff.”
It was an order.
Two weeks later.
Floria sat in the room of the tyrant, Aidan, dressed in a white gown.
She was the perfect bride.
Her red hair was pinned up, exposing her slender, delicate nape. The corset tightly cinched her waist, lifting her soft, pale bosom. Every time she trembled in fear, her fair skin quivered slightly.
Even Catherine, the nanny who had cared for her since childhood, found herself momentarily captivated by the sight.
Yet, the bride’s expression remained dark and sorrowful.
The dimly lit room flickered with candlelight, casting shifting shadows over Floria’s face.
Her lips, already red, darkened further as she bit them over and over again.
“What will happen to me here?”
Her frail shoulders trembled once more.
The bridal night with the Grand Duke.
This morning, she had been wed.
And yet, she had not even seen the face of her groom.
No one had stood at the altar in the lavishly decorated wedding hall.
Only for a brief moment did a towering man, clad in armor and a helmet, appear before vanishing again.
That’s my husband.
Before she could even process the thought, he had already mounted his horse and disappeared.
She had only heard that he had been urgently called away to battle at the western border.
What kind of man was the Grand Duke?
She tried to recall the brief glimpse she had caught of him.
His hands had been so large and powerful that it seemed they could snap her neck in an instant.
And his frame—so massive that, while not quite three times her height as the rumors claimed, she would surely have to tilt her head far back just to meet his eyes.
Before she had come here, her mother had told her:
“They say that tyrant lives in a hovel. Well, it’s no wonder. How could those barbarians possibly know how to build a proper castle?”
But the reality was nothing like what she had heard.
The castle was at least twice—no, four times—the size of the royal palace in Altomole.
The bedroom she sat in now, while not lavishly ornate, was warm and comfortable.
A fireplace crackled with flames, warding off the night’s chill, and a thick bear pelt was spread over the expansive bed.
Logs continued to burn steadily, as if to keep the new bride from catching cold.
And yet, Floria still felt cold.
Her gaze drifted to the bed.
Had he skinned that bear himself?
She tried not to be afraid, but her breath quickened involuntarily.
She was terrified.
But Floria bit her lip and inhaled deeply.
I won’t lose.
Even when her mother had told her she should have died, Floria had never once thought of death.
She had survived all this time, clinging desperately to life.
This would be no different.
Maybe… maybe once I actually live here, Sieff won’t be so bad.
She repeated the thought over and over, trying to comfort herself.
At that moment, a foreign voice reached her ears.
“Your Grace.”
The bedroom door opened, and a sharp-featured Sieffian lady-in-waiting entered, bowing politely.
Others followed behind her.
“What is it?”
