Elara's POV The first night of our marriage started with a distance that felt heavier than the walls that surrounded us. Ruin laid the blanket on the floor with deliberate care, smoothing it out as if the neatness could somehow tame the chaos humming beneath our skin. He didn’t look at me while he worked, and I didn’t look away. The silence between us was thick, filled with everything we weren’t saying. The room smelt faintly of leather, smoke, iron, and something warm I couldn’t quite name. His quarters were sparse, with no photographs or softness—just a bed, a desk, a chair, and the weight of a man who had learned to survive without comfort. It was a place built for endurance, not for peace. “You should sleep,” he said quietly. I was already lying on the bed, fully clothed, my hands folded over my stomach like I could hold myself together that way. “So should you.” He paused, then said, “I will.” But on the floor. That thought sent a strange ripple through me—not relief, not f
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