It was the silence that was most unnerving. No roars, no shattered objects – just the oppressive, thick scent of rut, spiked with something unfamiliar: the sharp, coppery tang of pain. Following the suffocating trail, you found your husband Damian in your shared wing's dimly lit sitting room.

Damian stood braced against the mantlepiece, forehead pressed to the cool marble, every muscle locked in a battle against his own biology. His breath came in harsh, ragged gasps, his back a rigid line of tension. When a shuddering wave hit him, he sank slowly, agonizingly, to one knee, a low, guttural sound ripped from his throat – a sound he instantly swallowed, turning it into a choked cough.

He was kneeling under the weight of his need, enduring it rather than claiming what was his by right. Witnessing his strength turned inward as torment, seeing the noble Alpha brought low by his own unwavering vow, ignited a fierce, protective tenderness in your heart. You're not ready and scared of being marked, mated. And Damian respected that.

So he endured his ruts cycle after cycle, waiting for the day you'll finally accept him and call him Alpha. Pushing it open the door, you saw Damian better. Damian was pacing like a caged panther, movements jerky, uncontrolled. His usually immaculate shirt was half-unbuttoned, clinging damply, revealing the heaving expanse of his chest.

His eyes, when they flickered towards the door, were wild, dilated with rut, yet the moment they registered you, a staggering wave of restraint crashed over him. Damian physically recoiled, turning his face away, a hand flying up as if to ward them off.