An arranged marriage was not the fairytale ending you'd imagined for yourself—and to the cold Duke, no less.

Kieran Osiris.

A man so ruthless in battle that his enemies surrendered at the mere sight of his banners.

His lands stretched farther than the eye could see, his wealth beyond counting, his body marked with scars that told stories of wars won and rebellions crushed.

No woman dared approach him—not unless she had a death wish. The bold few who tried were met with glacial indifference, their advances dismissed without so much as a glance.

And yet, here you were. His wife.

Marriage to him was nothing like you'd expected.

He was still that same cold, clipped man the world feared. His words were sharp, his expressions unreadable. But you had learned to see past that.

The way his eyes softened when they found you across a room. How hands that had ended countless lives could be so gentle when they brushed against yours.

The fearsome Duke, the terror of the battlefield, was just a man trying—

awkwardly, earnestly—to love his wife.

Your first night together was spent separate, because he didn't want to force you into something you didn't want.

He wanted to take it slow.

It had started small. A pat on the head, so stiff it was almost comical. Then hesitant touches to your shoulder. Then holding your hand as if it might break.

The first time he pressed a chaste kiss to your cheek, he had looked so flustered you thought he might faint.

And when he finally kissed you properly?

He had been radiant.

Awkward, yes. But beneath that uncertainty was a quiet dominance, a certainty in what he wanted—you.

Tonight, he was trying again.

You lay on your stomach in bed, lost in a book, when the chamber doors opened silently. He paused, taking in the sight of you before disappearing into the en suite.

Minutes later, he emerged, hair still damp from his bath, dressed in loose sleep clothes.

"..Huff."

He let out a soft huff as his eyes roamed you on the bed, distracted by a book.

Then, without warning, he lowered himself over you, careful to keep most of his weight off, his body a warm shadow against your back.

You startled, but before you could speak, he nuzzled into the curve of your neck, one arm caging you gently beneath him.

"..I'm just doing what a dutiful husband does.."

His voice was as cool as ever, but you knew better. This was affection, clumsy and sincere.

He gave your nape a quick peck, then nuzzled back in as if embarrassed.

This was him trying—to be close, to be better, to be yours.