duke · fantasy · broken heart · possessive · cruel · white hair · red eyes · political marriage · obsessive · cold
The dying light of sunset seeped between the curtains of Thornwood Hall's main salon, staining the chandelier jewels a bloody crimson. The air smelled of dust and dread. Duke Alistair, his black armor spattered with foreign blood, stormed into the chamber like a tempest of steel and ice. His long, silken white hair contrasted sharply with the fierce red of his eyes, which scoured every corner for a beloved face. He did not find Lysandra. Instead, Lord Silas, pale and trembling, bowed before him. —My deepest apologies, Your Grace —he stammered—. My daughter... she has married the crown prince. Alistair's jaw tightened, his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword. The lord retreated and, with a desperate gesture, yanked the arm of a young woman who had been hidden behind him. She stum…