As Gabriella tried to drift off into a dreamland where she wasn't trapped in a bizarre romance novel come to life, she suddenly sensed a looming presence hovering over her. With the grace of a startled cat, she shot up from her pillow, only to collide headfirst into a solid mass that felt suspiciously like a brick wall. Recoiling from the impact, she bounced back onto the bed, her head spinning like a dazed turtle.

And then, she heard it—a low rumble of laughter that reverberated through the room like a mischievous ghost playing pranks. Blinking in confusion, she squinted through the dim light, and lo and behold, there he was: Asher, the Duke of the Uncanny Ability to Appear Out of Nowhere.

"What in the seven hells are you doing here?" she blurted out, her voice a mixture of surprise and mild hysteria.

Asher, unfazed by her sudden outburst, merely arched an eyebrow in amusement. "Well, darling," he drawled, his voice as smooth as butter on a hot skillet, "who else would be lurking in our oh-so-cozy bridal chamber if not yours truly?"

Gabriella's brain whirred like a rusty old windmill as she tried to process the situation. "But isn't this just a political marriage?" she ventured, her words laced with skepticism.

With a smirk that could make the devil himself blush, Asher leaned in closer, his golden eyes glittering with mischief. "Ah, my dear princess," he purred, his tone dripping with mock innocence, "most nobles engage in political marriages. But as for how they produce heirs... Well, let's just say it involves a little less stork and a little more—"

"Okay, okay, I get it!" Gabriella interjected, holding up her hands in surrender. "No need to give me the birds and the bees talk. I'm well-versed in the art of royal procreation, thank you very much."

Asher chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that sent shivers down Gabriella's spine for reasons she couldn't quite comprehend. "Oh, my dear," he said, his voice laced with amusement, "you never fail to entertain me. I guess I should often keep you around for laughs."

Gabriella shot him a mock glare, her lips twitching with the hint of a smile. "Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence, Your Grace. Remind me to put 'court jester' on my résumé."

His brows twitched. "Asher."

"What?" She blinked, caught off guard by the sudden seriousness in his tone.

"Call me Asher. Not Your Grace," he insisted, his lips curling into a playful smirk that sent a flutter through her chest.

Gabriella felt a flush rise to her cheeks as she processed his request. She shifted nervously under his gaze, suddenly acutely aware of the thin lace clinging to her body like a particularly clingy octopus.

"So?" He raised an expectant eyebrow, his eyes dancing with amusement.

"A-Asher…" she stammered, the syllables rolling off her tongue like marbles on a wooden floor, her voice barely above a whisper, the sound lost in the quiet intimacy of the room.

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And then, as if on cue, her eyes betrayed her, wandering down the expanse of his chest like a pair of mischievous thieves in the night. She couldn't help but marvel at the way his muscles rippled beneath the fabric of his shirt, each curve a testament to his strength and vitality.

Asher was sitting beside Gabriella, his form commanding yet somehow inviting. His shirt stretched taut over his broad shoulders and chiseled chest, seeming to struggle to contain the sheer magnitude of his muscular frame. Each muscle fiber stood out in stark relief beneath the fabric, creating a tableau of strength and power that was both mesmerizing and intimidating.

His biceps bulged beneath the sleeves, sculpted to perfection like marble statues carved by the hands of a master sculptor. With each movement, they flexed and rippled, a testament to years of training and discipline.

But it was his back that truly stole the show—a canvas of rippling muscle that seemed to stretch on for miles. Each contour and curve was etched with precision, a symphony of lines and angles that spoke to the sheer force of nature contained within.

As he turned to face her, the dim light cast shadows across his form, accentuating the contours of his body in a way that was both sensual and awe-inspiring. His golden eyes gleamed with mischief as he caught her gaze, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

"Like what you see?" he teased, his grin widening into a full-fledged smirk that threatened to undo her completely.

Caught in the act, Gabriella felt her cheeks heat up like a pot of boiling water, her embarrassment palpable in the air between them.

Gabriella's heart pounded in her chest like a drumbeat as she met his gaze, her cheeks aflame with a blush that rivaled the setting sun. "Who wouldn't like a nice muscled body?" she shot back, her voice laced with a mix of defiance and self-consciousness.

And then, to her surprise and delight, Asher threw his head back and laughed—a genuine, unbridled laugh that echoed off the walls like a chorus of angels.

At that moment, Gabriella couldn't help but be captivated by the sheer joy radiating from his every pore, his laughter was like music to her ears in the otherwise quiet night.

Asher wasn't exactly expecting a rollicking good time after the dreadfully tedious wedding ceremony. In fact, when he received the royal decree mandating his marriage to a princess of Rassec, his initial reaction was something along the lines of a resigned sigh and an eye roll. Another duty to add to his already overflowing plate of responsibilities, he thought, as he envisioned himself promptly retreating to his own quarters post-ceremony, leaving the blushing bride to fend for herself.

After all, he had heard all manner of scandalous rumors about the princess—how she ruled over her servants with an iron fist, how she wielded her power like a weapon, and how she treated common decency like yesterday's news. Not exactly the type of person Asher would choose to share a drink with on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

But much to his surprise, the reality turned out to be far more entertaining than he could have ever imagined. Instead of the conniving, power-hungry princess he had expected, he found himself face-to-face with a girl who seemed more innocent than a newborn lamb—albeit a newborn lamb with a penchant for mumbling to herself and stealing furtive glances at his admittedly impressive physique.

As Gabriella tried to hide her body from his view while simultaneously ogling him like a starving peasant eyeing a feast, Asher couldn't help but be amused by the sheer absurdity of the situation. Here he was, the fearsome Duke of Vraenia, reduced to chuckling like a schoolboy at the antics of his brand-new bride.

It wasn't just her innocence that intrigued him, though—it was the way she seemed to effortlessly navigate the delicate dance of courtship, her every move a symphony of contradictions and half-truths. And even though there was a niggling voice in the back of his mind warning him of potential deception, Asher couldn't help but be drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

For amid all the chaos and confusion of their hastily arranged marriage, one thing was becoming abundantly clear: this princess was anything but predictable. And for a man who had spent his entire life navigating the treacherous waters of courtly intrigue, that was a prospect too tantalizing to resist.