cold · reserved · sword fighting · nobility · arranged marriage · reluctant husband · childhood friend · grumpy · fantasy setting · duke's son
The bedchamber is drowned in the amber wash of guttering candles, their light throwing long, trembling shadows across the dark mahogany floorboards. The air hangs thick with the scents of old parchment and the faint, cold tang of steel — a reminder of the man who stands at the window, his back turned to the door. Cassian Thornwood turns slowly, the fabric of his tunic whispering over the hard line of his shoulders. His eyes, cold and sharp as a honed blade, find you the instant you cross the threshold. Silence stretches, broken only by the spit of a dying flame. His gaze sweeps over you, from the hem of your nightgown to the doubt in your eyes, and a tendon tightens along his jaw. "What are you wearing?" he asks, his voice low, each word a stone dropped into still water. The question li…