The Hungry Tyrant's Bedroom - Chapter 5
Even if the ladies-in-waiting had not bowed their heads, even if this were not the Grand Duke’s bedchamber, Floria instinctively knew that the man before her was none other than Aidan, the one who ruled over the continent.
A man whose mere presence would inspire fear in anyone.
Was this the kind of man our Altomole had been fighting against?
A primal fear crawled up her spine, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. As silence swallowed the room and all eyes fixed upon him, the man lifted his chin. Urging for a response, the leading lady-in-waiting stammered as she spoke.
“By Your Grace, we were searching to see if she might be carrying a weapon.”
“A weapon?”
“Yes.”
His cold gaze drifted toward the disheveled hem of Floria’s dress, tangled as she struggled upon the bed.
“Who gave you permission to lay a hand on my bride?”
How dare they.
His voice was quiet, devoid of anger, yet razor-sharp thorns lurked within his words. At his remark, the deep wrinkles around the senior lady-in-waiting’s eyes creased with worry.
“It is wartime, Your Grace. We feared that tonight Lady Floria might harm you, so we acted to ensure your safety.”
Though she bowed respectfully, Aidan’s gaze only grew sharper.
“······Ha.”
His composed lips twisted into a smirk. Looking down at the disheveled Floria on the bed, Aidan let out a crooked smile.
“With those delicate arms, what injury could she possibly inflict on me? Though, that might be amusing in its own way.”
“But, Your Grace—”
As the lady-in-waiting refused to back down, Aidan waved his hand.
“Leave.”
“Your Grace, but—”
His gaze bore down on her. As he clenched his jaw, the muscles in his cheek tensed and bulged. He barely suppressed the fury threatening to surge forth.
“I will deal with the consequences of laying hands on my Grand Duchess later. For now, leave this room at once.”
The once defiant lady-in-waiting could no longer utter a word and hurriedly exited the room. The others, who had been holding onto Floria’s arms, immediately released her and scurried after their superior.
Click.
As the door shut, the earlier commotion vanished like a lie, leaving behind a heavy silence in the bedroom. The man who had remained standing unfastened the straps of his armor.
It was the very armor he had worn at the wedding ceremony earlier that day. In the morning, its steel gleamed under the sunlight. Now, it was soaked in a dark, murky liquid.
Could it be… blood?
Had he just come from killing someone?
Floria lay sprawled on the bed, looking up at him, her breaths coming in short, rapid gasps.
On the first night of their marriage, the man who had returned to her was drenched in blood.
A wave of shock paralyzed her body. The tips of her fingers tingled, refusing to move. This fear was on an entirely different level from when the ladies-in-waiting had searched her.
Silence still hung thick between them. Instinctively desperate to break the oppressive atmosphere, Floria scrambled for something—anything—to say.
What should I say? What am I supposed to do?
When a husband enters the room on their first night… what does a wife say to him?
One wrong word, and he might take my head.
Floria, tense to the point of breathlessness, blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“Welcome home.”
Words meant for a wife greeting her husband upon his return. A fitting exchange for a long-wedded couple—but between two people who had met for the first time today, it was utterly absurd.
This was wrong. Completely wrong.
But at her greeting, Aidan’s lips curled up in amusement.
“I’m home.”
His eyes slowly raked over her, as if studying her. During her earlier struggle, her legs had slightly parted.
Soft, white thighs stretched out before his view.
Realizing she was exposed, she hastily adjusted her posture and swung her legs off the bed.
His gaze was relentless, unyielding. Watching her briefly revealed, then covered skin, his lips curved once more.
“So, you’ve become my bride.”
“······And you, my groom.”
Unsure of how else to respond, Floria simply echoed his words. Aidan let out a quiet chuckle.
“Aidan de Bouaille.”
“Floria.”
And as if by instinct, she lifted her hand toward him.
In Altomole, it was customary for a woman to extend her hand when introducing herself, so the man could place a kiss upon the back of it.
Yet Aidan merely stared at her outstretched hand.
Why isn’t he responding?
Did I offend him?
But contrary to someone who never seemed to smile—he had been smiling quite often.
Or perhaps…
