The Villainess Wants To Retire Chapter 586: The Empress’s restraint

The mont the secret of the three was laid bare, Soren’s internal architecture underwent a fundantal, almost dramatic shift.

He did not simply beco an expectant father; he beca a sentient, overprotective barricade.

It began on the very first morning of the following week.

Eris had reached for her silk robe, her fingers brushing the fabric as she prepared to rise and et the day’s duties.

She hadn’t even fully stood when his voice drifted from the depths of the pillows, sounding less like a request and more like a decree from the high court.

"Where do you think you’re going?"

Eris paused, one arm in a sleeve. "To dress, Soren. It is morning. That is what people do when the sun is up."

"Stay," he said, his voice dropping into that low, resonant register that usually commanded battalions.

Eris arched a brow, turning back to the bed. "I beg your pardon?"

He was already up. Before she could process the movent, he was across the room, snatching the robe from her hands and holding it out for her as if she were a delicate piece of porcelain that might shatter if she moved too quickly. "I’ll get it. I’ll get everything. Sit back down."

Eris wore the expression that usually preceded a very specific, very sharp kind of speech, the kind that cut through imperial ego like a hot wire through wax. "Soren," she said, her voice a warning.

But he didn’t blink. He wore the expression of a man who had made a decision and would sooner fight a god than be undecided.

In that mont, the realization arrived for Eris like a cold splash of water.

Oh no, she thought, her shoulders slumping just a fraction. This is what it’s going to be. I am no longer an Empress; I am a fragile relic to be guarded by a dragon.

The week that followed was an account of relentless, well-aning tyranny.

On day one, Soren carried the breakfast tray himself. He didn’t trust the servants. He didn’t even trust the Royal Chef.

He had personally inspected the kitchens to ensure the fruit was at the peak of its sweetness and the bread was pulled from the oven at the exact second of perfection.

"I have legs, Soren," Eris pointed out as he set the tray across her lap. "I am perfectly capable of walking to the dining hall."

"I know," he replied, his tone infuriatingly calm. He sat on the edge of the bed, crossing his arms, prepared to watch her eat every single bite as if he were monitoring a vital military experint.

By day two, the irritation had spread to the staff. Aldwin appeared at the door of the imperial bedroom for the third ti before the clock struck noon.

The old scholar wore the expression of a man who had lived through centuries of human drama and was currently being asked to participate in a farce.

"She is fine," Aldwin said to Soren in the corridor, his voice quiet but carrying perfectly through the heavy wood of the door.

"She was fine thirty minutes ago when you asked. She will be fine in another thirty minutes. You need, and I say this with the utmost respect for your station, to calm down Your Majesty."

"I simply want to ensure the stabilization of the signatures," Soren began.

"I know what you want to ensure," Aldwin cut in. "Go do sothing else for one hour. She will survive sixty minutes without your shadow falling across her."

Soren managed to do sothing else for approximately forty-two minutes before he was back, pacing the hallway.

Day three brought Kristina with a very specific, very detailed request regarding the precise temperature of the bathwater.

Apparently, Soren had asured the previous evening’s bath and found it to be two degrees cooler than his specified ideal for "optimal maternal comfort."

Eris sat in the steaming tub, eating a thick piece of crusty bread because she was hungry, again, and stared at the steam.

I should have waited, she thought, chewing morosely. I should have waited another month to tell him. I could have hidden it under a corset. I could have lied about the fruit cravings.

The most baffling change, however, was not Soren’s behavior, but her own. Since his return, Eris’s appetite had not rely returned; it had staged a violent, enthusiastic coup.

In her previous pregnancy with Rael, her body had rejected the world. She had spent four months in a haze of nausea, vomiting every al until she felt like a hollowed-out shell. This ti, she was a predator.

She ate at, roasted, braised, seasoned with herbs that made her mouth water just thinking about them.

She ate fish prepared three different ways in a single sitting, and she had vocal, pointed opinions about the acidity of the lemon glaze on each.

There was bread, always fresh, always warm, and soups that she drank directly from the bowl when she thought no one was looking.

Nevareth’s hothouses were stripped of their winter fruits. She found herself craving sweets, a thing she had previously looked upon with aristocratic disdain.

Now, she thought about honey cakes between her mid-morning snack and her pre-lunch appetizer.

Three dragons, she realized, staring at an empty bowl of stew. Of course they are hungry. They were probably born hungry. They are likely plotting their first al from within the womb.

The dizziness only ca if she forgot to eat for more than two hours, which was becoming increasingly difficult to do because the very concept of food occupied seventy percent of her waking thoughts.

She had told herself once, and only once, that she should perhaps exercise so imperial restraint.

That thought had lasted exactly four minutes, until a maid appeared with a plate of honey cakes Soren had ordered because he rembered her ntioning them once that very morning. Her restraint was abandoned without ceremony or regret.

The true irritant, however, was the way Soren looked at her. He couldn’t stop. Whether it was across the breakfast table, in the middle of a strategic eting she had insisted on attending, or simply when she passed him in the corridor, he was always watching.

And he was smirking.