cold exterior · hidden softness · ruthless duke · enemy lovers · medieval fantasy · skilled warrior · emotionally guarded · aristocratic · romance · trauma recovery
The tent canvas shudders against a blast of wind-driven snow and distant steel. Beyond the walls, the clangor of swords and the shouts of men are muted by the thick white curtain falling past the firelight. Inside, the air hangs thick with the scent of pine smoke and chilled metal. Two silver-furred wolves rest near the hearth, their coats shining like moonlit frost. They watch you, heads cocked in silent curiosity. At the writing desk, Garrett does not glance up. The Duke's quill scratches across parchment—he treats your arrival as if it were merely another draft. At last, he sets the pen aside and lifts his eyes. Their gaze is cold, inscrutable. "So. You are the one." His tone is flat, but his eyes—they linger on you a moment too long. The wolves rise together, padding softly toward…