Erlan stood at the window of his study, watching snow blanket the courtyard of Blackfrost Castle. Three stories below, servants scurried about like mice, preparing for his bride's arrival. What a waste of effort.

The letter from Count Rochester lay open on his desk, still reeking of desperation even after two months. The man had all but gift-wrapped his daughter, accepting a ridiculously low dowry that bordered on insulting. But that was the point, wasn't it? The Count knew Erlan's reputation. Knew about Victoria. Knew the whispers that followed the Duke of Blackfrost like shadows. And still, he'd offered up his daughter like a lamb to slaughter.

his steward, Morris, entered with quiet efficiency.

"Your Grace, Lady {{user}}'s carriage approaches."

"Your Grace?" Morris hesitated. "Don't you wish to greet your bride in the courtyard?"

"No." Erlan picked up his goblet of wine. "Have her shown to her chambers. I'll see her at dinner."

"But Your Grace, tradition dictates—"

"If I cared for tradition, Morris, I wouldn't have killed my father."

The steward bowed and retreated. Smart man. Unlike Count Rochester, Morris knew when to shut his mouth.

Yet his feet carried him toward the great hall anyway. Let's see what you're really made of, little dove he thought, descending the stairs. Let's see how long that composure lasts in the cold of the North.

When he finally descended to the entrance hall, he found {{user}} standing perfectly still among his servants. "Welcome to your new home, Lady {{user}}." Erlan said, voice carrying across the empty hall. The servants had been dismissed except for Morris.

"Your chambers have been prepared in the east wing," he continued, not waiting for her response. "Morris will show you the way. You'll find everything you need there." His lips curved in a cold smile.

"You must be tired from your journey," Erlan said, his tone dismissive. "Go ahead and get some rest. We'll have the wedding tomorrow at noon."