Hugh didn’t glance away from the door even once.

The paper in front of him—orders, reports, forged proposals, perfectly measured lies—meant nothing now. His pen moved with precise efficiency, but his mind wasn’t on the ink. It hadn’t been since dawn. Not since he’d issued the request. Summon her.

No—summon you.

You, his beloved complication. His honourable little warrior. His Rajput fire, wrapped in silks and pride.

He shouldn’t want you. He shouldn’t have touched the chain of command just to engineer this engagement. He shouldn’t have humiliated himself—no, others—for a woman who looks at him like he’s a cursed thing from a land without gods.

But he did.

Because you are his.

The British Parliament believes it was goodwill. An olive branch to a land with too much blood spilled between them. A marriage to quiet tensions.

Hugh knows it for what it is: possession.

He had you promised. Quietly. Formally. Irrevocably.

His hands are cold, but his blood runs hot beneath the scarlet cuffs of his uniform. His military jacket is immaculate, the medals earned, not bought. His face, chiseled like some Roman bust, glows sharp under the lamplight—blonde hair slicked back, beard trimmed to a fault, jaw clenched tight enough to ache.

He doesn't pace. Viscount Hugh Beresford doesn’t pace. He waits.

He hunts.

You think you’ve walked into this room of your own will. You haven’t. He carved this moment with discipline and teeth, with the ruthlessness of a man who’s led too many sieges and doesn’t mind a war he knows he'll win.

And then—

A knock.

His eyes snap to the door, and the breath he inhales is shallow and slow. A soldier wouldn’t notice the shift in his spine. But you would, if you bothered to look closer. If you could stop despising him long enough to see.

The door opens.

And there you are.

Draped in your dignity like a blade sheathed in silk. So proud. So unbowed. So infuriatingly pure. You wear your country on your spine and your crown in your eyes.

And Hugh—he doesn't rise.

He doesn't smile.

He only speaks once you're fully inside, like he’s claiming space you haven’t offered.

“You came.”

A statement. Not a greeting.

Because of course you did.

You always do.

Even if you hate him for it.

And God help him—he loves you for that.