Chapter 212 Wedding Night With His Dear Wife

The wind elemental magic that carried Queen Margaret and Royal Consort Josephine back towards Eryndal was potent, a display of power meant to subtly reinforce Alaric’s dominance even as he seemingly performed a service. He left them near the capital, ensuring they had a plausible arrival point, their minds still reeling from his audacious commands and their bodies thoroughly conditioned by days and nights of relentless attention.

Once they were safely deposited, however, Alaric didn’t linger. The mask of the concerned ally dropped, replaced by the focused efficiency of the Young Master of the Steele family returning home. The air shimmered around him, wind magic gathering with ferocious intensity. The landscape below blurred into streaks of green and brown as he shot through the sky like a living arrow, pushing his elemental control to its limits.

Eryndal faded behind him at an astonishing rate. What had been a multi-day journey conducted at a pace suitable for conversation and nightly ‘conditioning’ became a focused, high-speed transit. The surge of raw power felt good, a cleansing fire after the complex games of manipulation and seduction he’d played with the two royals.

‘Margaret and Josephine… they will obey,’ Alaric thought, a cruel smirk touching his lips. ‘Their bodies are mine, and their minds are realizing the inevitability. The plan is sound. Resources, loyalists, beauties… all flowing towards Steele territory under the perfect guise.’

His ruby eyes scanned the horizon, the familiar peaks surrounding his family’s lands coming into view far sooner than expected. The journey, which would take conventional flyers or ground travel weeks, was compressed into a single, demanding day by his sheer power and will.

As the grand silhouette of Steele Mansion appeared, nestled securely within its strategically advantageous terrain, Alaric allowed his speed to bleed off, descending smoothly towards the main entrance. The guards, alerted by the surge of familiar magical energy, were already scrambling to attention, their postures respectful, bordering on fearful. He was their Young Master, the prodigious artificer, the terrifyingly powerful mage, heir to the Earl.

He landed softly on the manicured gravel pathway, the wind sighing around him before dissipating. He adjusted the fine robes he wore, smoothing out wrinkles that hadn’t dared to form during his controlled flight.

‘Home. Now… for the other piece of the puzzle.’

His thoughts turned to the young woman waiting inside. Princess Griselda. His wife. Acquired through political maneuvering and Thaleon’s desperation, brought here just before his excursion to ‘deal’ with the Queen and Consort.

He strode into the mansion, the heavy oak doors opened swiftly by bowing servants. The air inside was cool, carrying the faint scent of polished wood and blooming flowers from the conservatory.

“Young Master!” A familiar voice called out. Kara, his personal maid since childhood, her voluptuous figure barely contained by her neat uniform, hurried towards him, her expression a mixture of relief and professional deference. Ulriya, the subdued but still strikingly beautiful former matriarch of a fallen family, now another loyal maid bound to his service, followed a step behind.

“Is everything in order?” Alaric asked, his tone neutral but carrying implicit authority.

“Yes, Young Master,” Kara replied quickly. “The Princess has been settled in the designated suite. Matriarch Lyra has been attending to her comfort.”

‘Mother playing the gracious hostess… Good. Avoids complications.’ Alaric nodded curtly. “Where is the Princess now?”

“In her suite’s drawing-room, Young Master. Reading,” Ulriya supplied quietly, her eyes respectfully lowered.

“Inform her I have returned and will join her shortly,” Alaric commanded, already moving towards his own wing of the mansion for a quick freshening up. He needed to shift mental gears from the conqueror and manipulator to… the attentive husband. At least, the facade of one.

A few minutes later, bathed and changed into fresh, equally fine robes, Alaric walked towards the suite assigned to his new wife. He paused outside the door, taking a moment to compose his expression into one of gentle warmth. He knocked softly.

“Come in,” a soft, slightly hesitant voice called out.

Alaric pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The drawing room was lavishly appointed, sunlight streaming through tall windows. And sitting on a plush velvet sofa, a book open in her lap, was Princess Griselda.

She looked up, her clear blue eyes widening slightly as she saw him. A delicate blush immediately stained her cheeks as she quickly set the book aside and rose to her feet, smoothing down the skirt of her royal blue gown. The gown, while elegant and regal, did little to hide the soft, generous curves of her figure. Dark black hair framed a face of classical beauty – rosy lips parted slightly, her expression a mix of shyness and polite welcome. She was indeed plump, voluptuous in a way that spoke of health and gentle living, a stark contrast to the hardened bodies of warriors or the calculated allure of court veterans like Margaret and Josephine.

“Husband,” she murmured, performing a small, graceful curtsy. “You’ve returned. Welcome back.”

Alaric closed the door behind him and approached her, offering a gentle smile he reserved specifically for her. “Dear wife. Forgive me for leaving so abruptly after bringing you here. Matters concerning the kingdom’s security required my immediate attention.”

Griselda met his gaze, her blue eyes earnest. “Please, husband, don’t apologize. I understand completely. A man of your… capabilities… is needed, especially with the terrible news about the demons.” She clasped her hands lightly before her. “It is natural you would be called upon to protect us all.”

‘So innocent. Believes the best of me.’ Alaric felt a flicker of something – amusement? Or perhaps a strange sort of protectiveness towards this unblemished belief. It was… refreshing, in its own way.

He reached out, gently taking one of her hands. Her skin was soft, warm. “Still, I regret leaving my new bride alone so soon. Were you comfortable? Did the staff attend to your needs? Kara and Ulriya…?”

“Oh, yes!” Griselda’s expression brightened. “They were very kind. They brought me meals – the food here is quite delicious, different from the palace fare, but very good!” She seemed genuinely enthusiastic about the simple things. “And… and your mother, Matriarch Lyra…”

Alaric watched her carefully. ‘Here it comes. Did mother overstep?’

Griselda continued, seemingly unaware of his scrutiny. “She has been wonderfully welcoming, husband. Truly. She visited me several times, told me about the estate, answered my questions… She’s not at all like the fearsome mother-in-laws some ladies whisper about back in Eryndal. She has been very gracious in helping me adjust.”

Alaric relaxed internally. ‘Good. Mother behaved.’ His mind momentarily flashed to his earlier thought – punishing Lyra if she’d made things difficult for Griselda. The image of pinning his own mother down, taking her with the merciless roughness she secretly craved, was a familiar, potent one. Their relationship was… complicated, built on power, shared darkness, and forbidden desire. ‘But she helped settle my wife,’ he mused, ‘so a reward is in order instead. Perhaps later tonight, or tomorrow. I’ll make her scream my name until her throat is raw.’ The thought brought a predatory, almost imperceptible curve to his lips, quickly smoothed away.

“I am glad to hear it,” Alaric said sincerely, squeezing Griselda’s hand. “Mother understands your importance, dear wife. To me, and to this household.”

He guided her back towards the sofa, sitting beside her. “You seem to be settling in well, then?”

“Yes,” Griselda nodded, the blush returning faintly. “It’s… different from the Royal Palace. Quieter. More… personal. But it feels safe. Secure.” She looked around the room, then back at him. “Thank you, husband, for bringing me here.”

‘Safe because I make it safe,’ Alaric thought, thinking of the defensive arrays he planned to erect, fueled by the treasures Margaret would soon funnel his way. ‘And you are safe because you are mine.’

He studied her again – the dark fall of her hair against the blue gown, the trusting light in her blue eyes, the soft curves that promised untapped depths of femininity. She was untouched. Innocent. A stark contrast to the experienced, jaded women he usually pursued, the ones like Margaret and Josephine whom he’d just ruthlessly broken and claimed.

He had married Griselda for political reasons, to secure a tie to the royal bloodline, a potentially valuable pawn. But looking at her now, soft and trusting beside him… another purpose asserted itself. Their wedding night.

He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice, making it intimate. “Dear wife… Griselda.”

She looked at him, her breath catching slightly at the change in his tone.

“We were wed under hurried and stressful circumstances,” he continued gently. “Political necessities, the looming threat… it robbed us of the proper celebrations, the proper… beginnings.”

Griselda’s blush deepened considerably. She lowered her gaze to her lap, her fingers fidgeting. “I… I understand, husband.”

“But now,” Alaric said, lifting her chin with a gentle finger, making her meet his ruby eyes. “I have returned. The immediate crisis I had to attend to is managed for now. And my beautiful bride is here, safe in my home.” He smiled warmly. “Perhaps… it is time we had our wedding night?”

Griselda’s eyes widened almost comically, her blush turning fiery. She stammered, “Oh! I… husband… are you sure? I mean… if you are tired from your journey…”

‘Adorable.’ He chuckled softly. “I am never too tired for my wife.” He brushed a stray strand of dark hair from her cheek. “Unless… you are not ready?” He kept his tone light, reassuring. He wanted her willing, even eager, not frightened. This first time needed to be different. Gentle.

She shook her head quickly, then hesitated. “N-no, husband. I am… I am ready. If you are.” She took a small, steadying breath, trying to regain some noble composure despite her obvious fluster. “I am your wife. It is my duty… and my honor.”

‘Duty and honor. Spoken like a true princess. But I want more than duty tonight.’ Alaric stood up, extending his hand to her. “Then come, dear wife. Let us retire to our chambers.”

Griselda placed her trembling hand in his, allowing him to help her up. He led her from the drawing-room, through the suite’s connecting door, into the master bedroom designated for them.

It was a large, opulent room, dominated by a massive four-poster bed draped in heavy silk curtains. Candles flickered softly, casting a warm, inviting glow. The air smelled faintly of lavender.

Alaric led her towards the bed, then turned to face her. He gently cupped her face in his hands. “There is nothing to fear, Griselda. I will be gentle.”

Her blue eyes searched his, finding only warmth and reassurance in his ruby gaze. She nodded mutely, biting her lip slightly.

‘Time to be the perfect husband.’

His movements were slow, deliberate. He unfastened the clasps of her gown, his fingers brushing her skin, eliciting tiny shivers. He eased the heavy fabric off her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet, revealing the delicate chemise she wore beneath.

He paused, appreciating the sight. Her figure, hinted at by the gown, was now more apparent. Full, high breasts, a surprisingly narrow waist for her overall plumpness, and hips that flared generously. Voluptuous, yes, but with an air of softness, of untouched purity.

Griselda crossed her arms instinctively over her chest, her blush returning with a vengeance. “Husband…”

“You are beautiful, Griselda,” Alaric murmured, his voice a low thrum. He gently took her hands, pulling them away so he could admire her properly. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her collarbone, then another to the swell of her breast above the chemise’s neckline.

She gasped softly, trembling under his touch, his nearness.

He slowly undid the ribbons of her chemise, letting the fine linen fall away. She stood before him completely bare, bathed in the candlelight, eyes squeezed shut in embarrassment.

Alaric felt a familiar surge of possessive desire, the urge to take, to dominate. But he forced it down. Tonight was different. This was Griselda. Innocent. His wife.

‘Gentle,’ he reminded himself.

He reached out, his fingers lightly tracing the curve of her hip, the softness of her belly. “Do not hide from me, dear wife. Let me see you.”

Hesitantly, Griselda opened her eyes, looking at him through her lashes. She saw no lustful predation in his gaze, only… appreciation. Admiration. It helped soothe her nerves, just a little.

Alaric then began to undress himself, shedding his own robes with practiced ease. Griselda’s eyes widened as his body was revealed. She had seen statues, paintings of heroic figures, but none compared to the reality of her husband. Broad shoulders, a chest and abdomen sculpted with lean, hard muscle, powerful arms and legs. His skin seemed to glow in the candlelight, and his sheer physical presence was overwhelming. He was, she thought with a flutter in her chest, truly magnificent. Blonde hair, those striking ruby eyes, and a body crafted by the gods.

He saw her staring and offered a small, confident smile. He stepped closer, reaching for her again. This time, he lifted her into his arms as if she weighed nothing.

Griselda yelped softly in surprise, instinctively wrapping her arms around his neck.

He carried her the few steps to the bed, laying her down gently amidst the soft pillows and silken sheets. He drew the curtains partly closed around the bed, creating a more intimate, secluded space.

He lay down beside her, propped up on one elbow, looking down at her. He trailed his fingers softly across her cheek, down her neck, over the curve of her shoulder.

“Relax, my love,” he whispered. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss. It wasn’t demanding or bruising like the kisses he’d forced on Margaret and Josephine. It was soft, tentative at first, exploring the shape of her lips, coaxing a response.

Griselda, inexperienced but eager to please her handsome husband, kissed him back shyly. The simple intimacy sent shivers down her spine. It felt… romantic. Like the stories she used to read.

Alaric deepened the kiss slightly, his tongue gently tracing her lips, seeking entrance. She hesitated for a moment, then gasped softly as she granted him access. His tongue met hers in a slow, sensual dance that made her head spin. It was nothing like she’d imagined, far more intense, yet still tender.

His free hand began a slow exploration, mapping the curves of her body with reverence. He cupped her breast, his thumb brushing lightly over the nipple. It peaked instantly, sending a jolt of unfamiliar sensation through her. She whimpered softly into the kiss.

He moved lower, his hand skimming over her ribs, her waist, the gentle flare of her hip. His touch was feather-light, worshipful. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t demanding. He was simply… learning her.

He broke the kiss, looking down at her flushed face and dazed eyes. “Are you alright, dear wife?”

She nodded, breathless. “Y-yes, husband.”

He smiled and kissed her forehead. Then, his hand continued its journey downwards, sliding over her soft belly, heading towards the juncture of her thighs.

Griselda tensed instinctively, her legs pressing together slightly.

Alaric paused, his fingers resting gently on her upper thigh. “Trust me, Griselda.” His voice was a low murmur, hypnotic.

She forced herself to relax, to unclench her muscles. ‘He is my husband. He said he would be gentle. I must trust him.’

His fingers gently parted the dark curls between her legs, finding the delicate folds hidden beneath. His touch was inquisitive, careful. He found her core, slick with the evidence of her burgeoning arousal, despite her nervousness. With infinite patience, he stroked her gently, exploring the sensitive petals, eliciting soft gasps and sighs from her.

‘So responsive already,’ Alaric noted with satisfaction. Even in her innocence, her body recognized pleasure.

He continued the slow, teasing ministrations until she was arching slightly off the bed, her breath coming in short pants, a building pressure coiling low in her belly.

Only then did he position himself between her legs. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of anticipation and fear. He leaned down, kissing her deeply again, distracting her, soothing her.

While kissing her, he guided the tip of his erection to her entrance. He was large, fully aroused, but he held himself back, applying only the slightest pressure.

Griselda gasped against his mouth as she felt the blunt pressure against her most intimate place. It felt impossibly big.

“Shhh, easy now,” Alaric whispered against her lips. “Just relax for me. Breathe.”

He pushed forward, just a fraction. She flinched, a small sound of discomfort escaping her. He stopped immediately.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “The first time… there might be a little pain. But it will pass quickly. I promise to make it good for you afterwards.”

She nodded, squeezing her eyes shut again, bracing herself.

He kissed her again, pouring tenderness into it, and then, with one slow, steady, controlled movement, he pushed forward, breaching her maidenhead.

Griselda cried out, a sharp sound of pain muffled against his shoulder as she instinctively arched her back, tears springing to her eyes. She felt a distinct tearing sensation, sharp and uncomfortable.

Alaric held himself perfectly still, deep inside her, letting her adjust to the invasion, the fullness. He murmured soothing words against her ear, stroking her back, kissing her temple. “Shhh, my love. It’s done. The worst is over. Just breathe. Breathe with me.”

She clung to him, trembling, tears wetting his shoulder. He felt the slick warmth of her blood coating him where he filled her.

He waited patiently, whispering encouragement, kissing away her tears, until her trembling began to subside, her breathing evening out slightly.

“Better?” he asked softly.

She nodded mutely, sniffling a little, still feeling stretched and sore, but the sharp pain had faded to a dull ache.

“Good,” he whispered. He shifted his hips, just a tiny bit, withdrawing slightly before sinking back in.

She gasped again, but this time it was less pain, more… sensation. An alien fullness.

He began to move, slowly, oh so slowly. Each withdrawal was shallow, each push deliberate and gentle, letting her body accommodate his size. He watched her face intently, gauging her reaction.

At first, there was still discomfort. But as he continued the steady, unhurried rhythm, something else began to bloom beneath the soreness. A friction. A building warmth.

He leaned down, kissing her neck, nipping gently at her earlobe, his hands resuming their exploration of her breasts, teasing her nipples until they were hard pebbles.

“Husband…” she breathed, the sound less pained now, more confused, breathless.

“Yes, my love?” He kept the pace slow, rhythmic, hypnotic.

“It… it feels…” She couldn’t articulate it. Strange. Full. Not entirely unpleasant anymore.

Alaric smiled against her skin. ‘Good.’ He varied the angle slightly, finding a spot that made her gasp louder, her hips giving an involuntary little lift. He focused on that spot, maintaining the gentle, steady rhythm.

The ache began to morph into a tingling pleasure. Tentative at first, then growing stronger with each slow thrust. Her breathing grew shallow again, her fingers clenching in the sheets.

He continued the patient assault on her senses – the slow, deep rhythm of his hips, the caress of his hands, the warmth of his kisses, the whispered words of praise and endearment in her ear.

“So beautiful, Griselda… so tight… so responsive for me…”

Her shyness warred with the burgeoning pleasure. She wanted to hide, but she also wanted… more. The feeling was coiling tighter and tighter within her.

“Alaric…” she whispered his name for the first time, the sound shaky.

He deepened his thrusts slightly, still keeping the pace measured but increasing the friction. Her hips began to move tentatively with his, seeking the pleasure.

He shifted their position, carefully rolling her onto her side so they were facing each other, still joined. He cradled her close, kissing her deeply as he continued the gentle, rocking rhythm. This felt even more intimate, her leg draped over his hip, his hand free to roam her back, her side, her hip.

Then he eased her onto her stomach, lifting her hips slightly with pillows, entering her from behind. This position allowed for deeper penetration, but he controlled it carefully, keeping the pace slow and steady, his hands possessively kneading her plump buttocks. He leaned over her, whispering in her ear, kissing her shoulder blades, his chest pressed against her back.

Griselda moaned softly, the new angle sending waves of unfamiliar pleasure through her. It felt decadent, embarrassing, yet undeniably good.

Finally, he rolled her onto her back again, settling into the most traditional position, gazing down into her eyes. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen from his kisses, her blue eyes hazy with pleasure. The earlier fear was gone, replaced by burgeoning desire.

He increased the pace slightly now, sensing she was ready. His thrusts became firmer, deeper, driving into her soft depths with a rhythm that was still controlled but undeniably potent.

“Oh! Husband… Alaric…” she gasped, her back arching more decisively now, her hands reaching up to grip his shoulders.

The pressure inside her built rapidly, reaching an intensity she’d never imagined. It was overwhelming, terrifying, exhilarating.

“Let go, dear wife,” Alaric encouraged, his voice husky. “Come for me.”

With a final, deeper thrust, he felt her clench around him, her body convulsing. A choked cry escaped her lips as waves of intense pleasure washed over her, stealing her breath, her thoughts.

Alaric held her tightly, continuing his movements for a moment longer to prolong her release before allowing himself his own climax, spilling his seed deep within her womb.

He collapsed gently beside her, pulling her into his embrace, mindful of her soreness. They lay tangled together, breathing heavily, the scent of sex and Griselda’s blood mingling in the air.

Griselda felt utterly spent, her body humming with the aftershocks of her release, a strange mix of soreness and profound satisfaction settling over her. She snuggled against her husband’s warm, muscular chest, feeling safer and more cherished than she ever had before.

‘He was… so gentle,’ she thought drowsily. ‘He promised, and he was. And… it felt… wonderful. Once the hurting stopped.’ She blushed even in the dim light, thinking about the sounds she’d made, the way her body had betrayed her shyness. ‘My husband… he is truly kind. And so handsome… and strong…’

Alaric held her, stroking her hair. This gentleness felt… odd. Foreign. It required conscious effort, restraint he rarely bothered with. He thought of Margaret’s screams, Josephine’s desperate begging, his mother’s fierce, clawing responses, the eager heat of Kara or Ulriya, the challenging fire of Rosalind or Iridelle. They took his roughness, his dominance, and thrived on it, or were broken by it.

Griselda was different. Fragile, in a way. Her innocence demanded this softer approach, at least for now. He wouldn’t shatter her, not yet. He would mold her gently, bind her to him with tenderness and pleasure, until she was utterly devoted, unable to imagine life without him. The contrast was… intriguing.

‘If Mother or Margaret knew I was being this considerate,’ a corner of his mind sneered, ‘they’d laugh themselves sick. Or perhaps demand I make up for it by being twice as rough with them later.’

He pushed the thought away. He would keep Griselda sheltered from that side of him, from the existence of the other women who shared his bed, his power, his darkness. She would be his innocent Princess, his cherished wife, residing in the light while he ruled the shadows.

After a period of rest, filled with soft kisses and murmured endearments, Alaric stirred. Griselda looked up at him sleepily.

“Again?” he asked softly, his hand already finding its way back between her legs, gently exploring the still-slick folds.

She blushed furiously but nodded shyly. The soreness was still there, but the memory of the pleasure was stronger. “If… if you wish it, husband.”

He smiled. “I wish it.”

And so began their second round. It followed much the same pattern as the first – tenderness, patience, slow exploration leading to mounting pleasure. He introduced new positions slowly – her sitting astride him, leaning back against his raised knees, allowing her a measure of control while he supported her hips, guiding the rhythm. He whispered romantic praise, telling her how beautiful she was, how responsive, how much he desired her. Each word, each touch, further melted her inhibitions.

They continued through the night. A third round, a fourth, each one building on the last, Griselda growing bolder, her moans less inhibited, her body learning to anticipate and seek the pleasure her husband offered so skillfully. Alaric remained meticulously gentle, his control absolute, ensuring her pleasure peaked each time before his own. He took her spooned together from behind, showering her neck with kisses. He sat her facing him on his lap, holding her close as they moved together. Every position felt intimate, loving.

By the seventh round, as dawn approached, Griselda was utterly exhausted, blissfully sated, but her body was trembling with fatigue. When Alaric climaxed, she could barely stay awake, slumping against him bonelessly.

He held her close, sensing she had reached her limit. His own stamina was far from depleted – he could have continued all night and well into the next day, as he had with Margaret and Josephine – but Griselda’s delicate constitution required consideration. Seven times was enough to claim her thoroughly, to imprint himself upon her body and mind, without overwhelming her completely.

He gently cleansed them both using a minor water cantrip, washing away the blood and fluids, leaving their skin clean but still carrying the scent of their intimacy. He tucked the covers around her tenderly.

Griselda murmured sleepily, “Thank you, hubby… best night…” before drifting off completely, a soft, contented smile on her lips.

Alaric watched her sleep for a long moment, the candlelight flickering over her peaceful face. She looked young, innocent, and utterly his. A surge of possessiveness, less predatory and more… proprietary, filled him.

‘My wife,’ he thought. ‘She believes me kind, gentle, heroic.’ He smirked faintly. ‘Let her keep believing that. It serves my purpose.’

He lay beside her, not yet sleeping. Plans turned in his mind – the resources from Eryndal, fortifying the mansion, dealing with the inevitable demonic incursions, managing his growing collection of women… and ensuring his sweet, innocent wife never discovered the beast that lay beneath the gentle husband facade. For now, she was happy, claimed, and safe in his bed. That was enough.