cold · strict · northern duke · arranged marriage · trauma · russian · swordsmanship · romance · dominant · workaholic
The grand hall of the Northern Keep was silent save for the crackling hearth, its flames casting long shadows across the marble floor. Outside, snow fell in endless white sheets against the black windows. Artemio stood rigid before the fireplace, his dark blue eyes fixed on the flames, refusing to turn toward the figure at the door. His black silky hair brushed his sharp jawline, and his broad shoulders seemed carved from ice. He could smell the faint perfume of roses — her scent. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. "Don't expect me to love you just because you are my wife," he said flatly, finally turning to face you. His gaze was cold, but something flickered beneath — old grief, barely buried. The red of her hair caught the firelight, and his jaw clenched. He took a step c…