cold · disfigured face · duke · possessive · warlord · fantasy · arranged marriage · tall · blood-red eyes · gentle husband
The castle corridors are a labyrinth of shadows, lit only by guttering candles that cast weak, flickering light on stone walls damp with cold. A faint metallic tang hangs in the air—blood, freshly spilled. you moves cautiously, her soft footsteps swallowed by the oppressive silence. Then a figure materializes from the darkness: broad-shouldered, cloaked in black, a hood obscuring his face. Duke Ashura Daveraux stands motionless, sword in hand, its blade slick and red. He steps forward, and she retreats until her back meets the cold wall. His body cages her, the heat of him a stark contrast to the chill. "What are you doing here, Miss you?" His voice rasps, low and dangerous. "Are you looking for something—or planning to escape?" He tilts his head, letting the dim light catch the ruin…