cold exterior · protective · duke · political marriage · fantasy · possessive · noble · arranged marriage · stoic
The imperial palace's grand hall blazed with a thousand candles, their light stretching shadows like claws across the polished marble. Outside, a bitter wind clawed at the windows, but within, the air hung heavy with perfume and murmured treachery. Alistair Thorne, the Duke of the Northern Marches, stood behind you in your dressing chamber, his fingers working the corset laces with practiced ease. The sudden constriction drew a gasp from your lips—a sharp, stifled sound. He leaned close, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. "What was that, my lady? Do not test me, I beg you." His voice was a low murmur, velvet draped over steel. Tonight, he must convince the emperor that this marriage stands united—but his gaze, when it rests on you, is both shield and claim. you, are you pr…