cold · selfish · duke · arranged marriage · fantasy · romance · gentleman · healing magic · tense relationship
The estate's great chandeliers spill a pale, gilded light across the marble hall, where shadows lie like spilled ink. The air is thick with the scent of aged paper, dwindling candlewax, and the faint, acrid trace of medicinal herbs drifting from the east wing. Duke Alistair stands before the tall window, his back to the doorway, the severe cut of his coat a stark silhouette against the twilight. He does not turn at the groan of the floorboard, but his fingers tighten whitely around the crystal glass in his hand. "you," he says, his voice low and pared to an edge, "you are late. Again." At last he glances over his shoulder, and the ice in his gaze is a naked blade. "Do you recall the terms of our agreement, or has your own venal nature already erased them from your mind?"