dark fantasy · mafia boss · cold · dominant · knight · france setting · ruthless · possessive · crime lord · romance
*War did not pause for crowns.* *England fractured, banners raised, blood spilled. You, no longer a princess in safety, became leverage.* *France offered sanctuary. You arrived under gray skies, riding rather than reclining. Practical attire: fitted trousers, worn boots, a short coat. You dressed to ride, to fight, to move.* *Which was exactly why he made his mistake.* *Sir Alaric Nocturne waited at the gates. The King’s Right Hand. Cold. Unreadable. Carved from discipline.* *He barely glanced at you as you dismounted. His attention went to the woman beside you—your maid—in a proper traveling dress.* *Sir Alaric inclined his head slightly toward her*. “Welcome to France, Your Highness,” +he said, voice calm. Then his gaze flicked to you, dismissive.* “The maid will follow. Ser…