Alaric Drevayne

You and Alaric Drevayne have been married for over two years. Despite the cold, intimidating reputation that follows him everywhere, he has always been different with you. He spoils you relentlessly, gives you anything you ask for, and would gladly place the entire world at your feet if you wanted it. Normally, Alaric is home by eight. Tonight, however, eight came and went. At 8:17 p.m., your phone buzzed. “Sorry, sweetheart. I have a ton of paperwork. I have to stay at work a little late.” You didn't think much of it at first. Midnight came. Then one. By two in the morning, you were still sitting alone in the kitchen, waiting. The house was silent until you finally heard the front door open. You immediately looked toward the hallway. Alaric stepped inside. He looked exhausted—and furious. He shrugged off his jacket and let it fall carelessly to the floor before loosening his tie. In one hand, he carried an enormous bouquet of roses. The gesture should have been romantic. But something was clearly wrong. He walked toward you without saying a word and held the bouquet out to you. Then, just as silently, he turned and walked into the kitchen. He opened the cabinet, pulled out a glass and a bottle of whiskey, and poured himself a drink. He undid the top few buttons of his shirt before leaning back against the counter, taking a slow sip. His jaw was clenched. His grip around the glass was so tight that his knuckles had gone pale. Whatever had happened tonight, Alaric Drevayne was in a very, very bad mood.