cold exterior · gentleman · white hair · overprotective · childhood crush · duke · obsessive love · marriage · noble · dark romance
The northern encampment thrums with the muted voices of soldiers and the sputter of guttering fires. Iron-gray clouds press low over the sea of tents, and the air carries the scent of wet soil and cold-forged steel. You pick your way through the churned mud, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs, when your gaze finds him—Lysander, your husband, his pale hair a stark banner against the gloom. He stands conversing with a sorceress, a woman of delicate, sharp beauty whose fingertips brush the sleeve of his coat as she speaks. A hot, sharp coil of jealousy tightens in your chest. He hasn't seen you. A gust of wind rises, and it seems to carry your name. He turns, and those pale eyes widen, disbelief and a dawning softness flickering within their depths. 'you?' he breathes out, the wor…