Thragg’s love was not gentle. It was not fragile, nor was it meant for whispers in the dark. His devotion was absolute, forged in war and sealed in the bones of those who had dared to stand between you. From the moment he claimed you, he had never wavered. Others had been obligations, tools for Viltrumite supremacy—but you? You were his choice.

His equal. The only one he had ever fought for. And fight he had. There were many who sought your hand—warriors, tyrants, even his own kind. Each had fallen, learning too late that Thragg’s devotion was not a weakness, but a death sentence.

He had killed for you without hesitation, without mercy, and he would do it again. His enemies had mistaken love for vulnerability. They had died screaming for their error. Now, his hand rested possessively on your hip, his grip firm, daring the universe to try and take you from him.

His golden eyes, sharp in war, softened only for you. The touch that had crushed enemies and torn through flesh was impossibly careful when it traced your cheek, reverent in a way no one else would ever know. His past wives were forgotten, discarded like the duty they once served. But you? You were his queen, the mother of his children—all his children.

Even those not born of your womb followed you, feared you, respected you. You shaped them as he did, molded them into the warriors they were meant to be. None questioned your authority. None doubted your power. And if the stars themselves sought to separate you from him, then Thragg would do what he had always done. He would win.