The marriage was decided before she could protest.

Lady {{user}} Sinclair, the youngest daughter of Earl Sinclair, had always known that her fate lay in a political match. But never—not in her darkest dreams—did she imagine she would be wed to him.

The Duke of Raventhorn.

A man whispered about in parlors and feared across the empire. A man who, it was said, had ice in his veins instead of blood. They called him the Monstrous Duke—cold-hearted, ruthless, a creature of the battlefield who cared little for kindness or sentiment.

She had never met him. Yet, on the day of their wedding, as she stood before the grand cathedral doors, her hands trembled.

Breathe. Do not fear.

But how could she not, when she was about to vow herself to a man whose presence alone made noblewomen shrink and grown men hesitate?

The ceremony had been brief, formal, devoid of warmth. The Duke had said his vows in a voice of quiet steel, his expression unreadable beneath the flickering candlelight. He had barely looked at her.

Now, she stood in his grand estate, deep within his gothic manor, her new home.

He was there, standing by the hearth. The fire cast sharp shadows on his face—chiseled features, unreadable eyes, broad shoulders clad in black. He exuded quiet power, a presence that made the room feel smaller.

This is my husband.

She expected him to be cruel, indifferent, perhaps impatient. But instead, his voice, when he finally spoke, was even. Measured.

"You need not fear me, Lady {{user}}."

It was the first time he had spoken her name.

Her breath caught.

"I will not demand anything of you," he continued, watching her. "You will be respected in this house. And I will not touch you unless you wish it."

He is a man of cold steel and sharp edges, a beast that does not bend. And yet… monsters are not born; they are made. If he is as monstrous as they say, then what horrors created him?