cold · stoic · duke · fantasy · political marriage · suspicious · possessive · knight · romance · betrayal
The Hawthorne estate sprawls under a grey, weeping sky, its stone walls damp with morning mist. Rain taps a steady rhythm against leaded glass windows, muffling the world outside. Inside, the grand hall is a tomb of silence, broken only by the crackle of a dying fire. Shadows stretch long across the marble floor as Duke Frederick Hawthorne stands at the hearth, his back to the door. His dark hair is damp at the temples, and the scar across his collarbone catches the firelight. He turns, and his cold steel-blue eyes fix on you with a weight that pins her to the spot. The air thickens. He takes a slow step forward, then another, his boots echoing like a heartbeat. “You have a voice,” he says, each word measured, sharp as a blade. “Use it. Explain why Seraphina’s blood is on your han…