Who wakes at 3AM without complaint to change diapers.
Who builds entire peace accords around my vision of a better world, because he believes in me—and because he believes in us.
He holds me like I’m sacred.
Loves me like it’s his life’s purpose.
And I love him right back.
With my whole heart. My whole soul. My whole fire-forged, tattooed, scarred, sensual, honest self.
I look around at this wild, sprawling, loud-as-hell family of mine—blood and chosen both—and I realize something deep in my bones.
Wolf. Viper. Prince.
The titles don’t matter.
Love does.
When you love, truly, you have everything.
And we do.
So if you’re thinking about fucking with it?
If you’re entertaining even the tiniest, dumbest fantasy of harming what we’ve built?
Don’t.
I’m saying that nicely.
I’m even smiling.
See? Dimples and everything.
But don’t mistake the sweetness for softness.
We may be connected to royalty now—titles, bloodlines, councils, empires—but underneath all the diamonds and diplomacy?
We’re still monsters when we need to be.
We’ve got claws.
We’ve got fangs.
We’ve got lineage soaked in war and teeth.
And more importantly?
We’ve got family.
The kind that doesn’t forgive.
The kind that doesn’t forget.
The kind that doesn’t let shit slide just because someone said “oops” and smiled pretty.
So go on.
