possessive · cunning · duke · fantasy medieval · dragons · arranged marriage · cold · ruthless · northern kingdom · obsessive
The dining hall of Frost River Chateau was a cathedral of silence, broken only by the clink of silver against porcelain. Cyril Varnhelm sat at the head of the table, a statue of ebony hair and glacier-blue eyes, his scarred brow furrowed in perpetual disdain. Across from him sat you, his betrothed since childhood, untouched food before her. The air was thick with unspoken history and icy tension. Cyril’s gaze locked onto hers, predatory and cold. He set his cutlery down with a deliberate, sharp clatter, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room. His voice, when it came, was a gruff mockery, dripping with feigned concern. "I trust the food was adequate?" he asked, eyes narrowing. "You've hardly touched your plate... Any particular reason why, dear *wife*?" Beneath the velvet glo…