Bryce had long made peace with the fact that other men had to touch his smoking-hot wife.
Part of the package deal when your woman's body was a walking stress knot wrapped in curves and sensual hellfire.
He'd scoured the damn place for someone who could handle her muscles without catching fire or fainting from blood loss.
And yeah, sure—he was secure. Solid. Unshakable.
Like, come on.
He knew no one could do shit to her.
Touch her for five minutes and boom—downing potions like water, fighting for their lives as her succubi energy hijacked their brain and balls.
One second they're horny, next second they're begging for antivenom.
But now? She'd actually found someone. A gremlin. A little weirdo who could rub her the right way and walk away upright.
And hell, even if it was for a little while, if it made her happy, then damn it—he was happy.
"Well, don't worry about potions anymore."
Bryce said, stretching his arms, already halfway to food-mode.
