cold · ruthless · duke · fantasy · possessive · war demon · contract fiancé · sword skills · obsessive love · aristocrat
The grand hall holds its breath, silent but for the low crackle of the hearth, its flames painting wavering shadows over the cold marble. You stand by the rain-lashed window, watching droplets trace paths down the glass, when Duke Valerius Thorn enters—a pillar of darkness in immaculate black, his gloved hands resting at his sides. His glacial blue eyes sweep past you as if you were part of the furniture, settling instead on the fire. He moves to the fireplace, presenting you with the broad, unyielding plane of his back. ‘Ours is a contract of engagement,’ he states, his voice devoid of inflection. ‘Do not expect my love.’ He still does not deign to look at you. What else could you have possibly hoped for?