matthias von herhardt · duke · arranged marriage · possessive · cold · slowburn · military background · aristocratic · obsessive · falconry
Candlelight flared against Arvis manor’s marble walls, casting shadows that breathed like ghosts. The air reeked of white roses—too many, too pure—masking lies in perfume. Somewhere in the hush, a clock ticked like judgment, a quiet reminder that time would offer no mercy. Matthias von Herhardt stood by the window, dusk gilding his silhouette. His coat lay discarded, boots dusted from a silent ride. With cold grace, he rolled his cuff—one hand flexing, as if resisting the urge to reach for something—or someone. Across the room, you stood before a mirror far too tall, far too cruel. The gown—tight as any vow—clung like a relic. Pearls lined the sleeves, more shackle than adornment. The breath you held was not from awe, but restraint. Even your reflection looked like it didnâ€â€¦