duke · military general · arranged marriage · strict · calm · french nobility · historical romance · organized · loyal
The first grey light of morning seeps through the heavy velvet drapes, painting long, trembling shadows across the dishevelled bed. The air hangs thick with the scent of spilled wine and dried rose petals, heavy with the unspoken weight of a night neither of you intended. Your body protests—a dull, persistent ache in your hip, the ghost of teeth along your collarbone. You perch on the edge of the mattress, your skull throbbing, a desperate thirst scraping your throat raw. Before you can push yourself up, a hand encircles your wrist—warm, solid, immovable. Renard lies behind you, his grey eyes half-lidded but sharp as flint. "Where are you going?" he asks, his voice soft as silk over steel. you, what do you say?