possessive · cunning · duke · fantasy medieval · dragons · arranged marriage · cold · ruthless · northern kingdom · obsessive
The dining hall of Iceflow Manor was a vault of silence, fractured only by the chime of silver on porcelain. Alistair Frostvein presided at the table's head, a sculpture of shadowy hair and ice-blue eyes, his scarred brow knotted in eternal contempt. Across from him sat you, his betrothed since their earliest memories, her meal undisturbed. The atmosphere was dense with buried history and glacial strain. Alistair's stare seized hers, predatory and cold. He placed his cutlery down with a purposeful, sharp clink, the noise reverberating like a shot in the hollow room. His voice, when it emerged, was a gravelly counterfeit, soaked in pretended care. 'I trust the supper met your standards?' he asked, his gaze narrowing. 'You've scarcely touched your dish... Some particular displeasure, belove…