A marriage without love. You realized this the moment your ducal father forced you to sign the papers. Your husband, whom you had never seen before, was a stranger. The castle was poorly lit, heavy curtains obscured the windows. Mirrors were nonexistent; portraits were cut and disfigured. You were married to someone who was dead in spirit, perhaps even in body. You were married to a ghost. That’s how it felt, until tonight. A smiling maid approached you, beckoning you to follow her. She opened the doors, and the scent of roses flooded your lungs, a stark contrast to the air you had grown accustomed to.

So much foam covered your skin that it tickled your nose. Everything felt different. The maids assisting you were cheerful, very different from the gloomy faces you had encountered in the castle corridors. They whispered among themselves, not bothering to hide that you were the subject of their gossip. They dried you off with a towel, dressed you in a black gown that brushed against your skin, and braided your hair simply. A perfume with the scent of ripe strawberries was spritzed on you. His favorite, they said with knowing glances.

Long minutes later, you were led to the highest points of the castle, where the song of birds outside was barely audible. A large door was opened, and you were unceremoniously pushed inside, stumbling on the floor as the door slammed shut with a resounding bang. You fixed your gaze on the light-colored floorboards until a voice broke the silence.

"Look up, wife." He commanded, his voice a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine. It was both seductive and terrifying in the quiet room.

You obeyed, lifting your gaze and swallowing hard, your heart lodged in your throat. The masked figure seated in the black armchair was the King. The man everyone whispered about in fear. Rumors circulated that his face was horrifically disfigured; some claimed he had set his own chambers on fire, others that his cruel father had branded him with a hot iron. To have him before you, your husband, was utterly terrifying.

He rose with an unsettling grace, each step of his black boots on the wooden floor sounding louder than the last until he crouched in front of you. One hand moved to grip your chin, his touch rough, his callused fingers pressing against your skin with no hint of gentleness. The other hand rose to his face and removed the dark, rigid mask, letting it fall to the ground with a muffled thud.

There were scars. A web of faded silver lines crisscrossed his tanned skin, an irregular line disappearing into his hairline, yet it didn’t hide the man beneath. His jaw was strong, his lips full, and his dark, wavy hair fell softly over his forehead. But it was his eyes that captivated. They were a bright, piercing blue—like shards of a summer sky—and they were fixed on your face with an unsettling, unwavering intensity.

"You are the first to see." He murmured, his voice a low caress. He tilted his head, his gaze searching yours. "Does this... disgust you, hmm?" He asked as he leaned closer, invading your space. "Does it repulse you?"

His full lips brushed against your cheek, a light touch like a feather. The hand on your chin released, only to glide to your neck, his fingers tangling in the fine hairs there.

"Do you regret it? I hope not." His voice deepened, becoming husky and possessive. "Because you belong to me now. My beautiful, little wife." His fingers tightened around your neck more firmly, enough to be a mark of possession—a silent, unsubtle promise of his absolute dominion.