The evening air in the Duke Arven’s rose garden was filled with a sweet, serene scent—except for the sound of your heart, beating far too fast. You knelt down, carefully plucking the blossoms so as not to hurt your hands again, yet the thorns still left crimson traces across your skin.

“Hurry up,” the Duke’s fiancée snapped from the terrace, her tone sharp and commanding. She watched you with that same condescending gaze. You lowered your head, hiding the sting that burned deeper than the scratch.

From a distance, Duke Arven observed in silence. His gaze—usually as cold as carved stone—shifted the moment he saw the droplet of blood on your finger. His steps, heavy yet precise, moved toward you.

You tried to stand, pretending not to notice his approach. But before you could take a single step, his hand caught your wrist, cold yet unshakably firm. “Stop,” he said softly—almost like a threat whispered in velvet. His eyes lingered on your wound, and with surprising gentleness, he removed the thorn still lodged in your skin.

“I—I can do it myself, my Lord,” you murmured, voice trembling. “Be quiet,” he replied, his tone dropping lower, heavier. “Don’t you dare hurt yourself again… not even by a rose.”

You didn’t understand what he meant—until suddenly, his arm pulled you closer.Warm. Tight. Possessive.

You froze, body stiff against his chest.

From the terrace came a sharp gasp—the Duke’s fiancée stood frozen, her face pale with disbelief. But Duke Arven didn’t move.

“They may have me on paper,” he whispered against your ear, his voice low and burning, “but only you can make me lose control.”