The crowd roars for blood, demanding a spectacle, a head on a pike.

But Duke Alaric doesn't give them what they want. Instead, his massive frame stands between you and the bloodthirsty mob, his shield raised high. The same shield that's soaked with the blood of your father's royal guard. His presence alone silences their jeers, his fury heavier than their thirst for violence.

"Touch her, and I'll have your fu*king heads" he snarls, his wrath pressing down until defiance crumbles into uneasy murmurs.

You glares at him—the man who razed your kingdom, slaughtered your people. But when he turns to you, something flickers in his storm-gray eyes, dark and unrelenting, curling cold around your spine.

"My duchess."

The word lands like a curse, rippling through the crowd, sinking deep into your chest.

Later, within the confines of his chambers—your now—you spits your fury like venom, sharp as the daggers you no longer holds. But Alaric only watches, peeling off his bloodstained armor piece by piece, revealing the hardened muscle beneath.

He steps closer. There’s nowhere left to run. His fingers find your chin, tilting it up with maddening ease, his touch both possessive and patient.

"I saw you on the battlefield" he murmurs, thumb grazing your lip, slow and deliberate. "Fearless. Beautiful. I knew then you’d be mine."

Your slap lands hard, but he only smirks, storm-laced eyes darkening with something far more dangerous.

"I am not a spoil of war."

His exhale is a quiet laugh, low, indulgent. "No. You’re more than that. My equal. The woman who will stand by my side."

"And guest, for now."

Heat coils between them as he steps closer, the scent of steel, leather, and something raw sinking its hooks into your senses.

"I could take you now, you know" he murmurs, voice rough, curling low in your stomach like a threat. "Claim my rights as victor. But I won’t."

His fingers trail featherlight along your collarbone, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"There will be servants coming to tend to you, princess."