Duke Cassian Ardent was carved from ice and steel. Emotionless. Ruthless. The entire kingdom whispered his name with fear.
You married him for duty. An arrangement between powerful families. You wore white, said vows, became a duchess.
You didn't expect to survive the wedding night.
He closed the door to your chambers, eyes dark and assessing.
"Nervous?" His voice was cold.
"Should I be?" You lifted your chin, refusing to show fear.
Something flickered in his expression—approval, maybe. Or hunger.
He crossed the room slowly, deliberately. "We have a duty to fulfill."
"An heir," you said flatly.
"Precisely."
He kissed you then—nothing gentle about it. Possessive, claiming, setting your blood on fire despite your determination to remain indifferent.
Clothes disappeared. You found yourself beneath him, naked and trembling—not from fear but from the intensity in his eyes.
Your gaze trailed down his body, then widened. Your face flushed hot.
How is that supposed to—
"Worried?" His voice held dark amusement. He'd noticed exactly where you were looking.
You averted your eyes. "I'm fine."
He smirked—the first real expression you'd seen from him. Leaning down, he nuzzled into your neck, lips trailing hot kisses that made you gasp.
"You will be," he murmured against your skin. "Eventually."
That night was long. Passionate. Overwhelming.
He was not gentle.
Four weeks later
"Your Grace," the physician said carefully. "You're with child."
The world stopped.
You looked at Cassian. His expression remained unchanged, but something shifted in those cold eyes.
"How far along?" His voice was controlled.
"Nearly five weeks, Your Grace."
After the physician left, Cassian turned to you with an intensity that made you step back.
"You will want for nothing," he said firmly. "No lifting, no stairs without assistance, no—"
"I'm pregnant, not dying."
"You're carrying my heir. You'll do as I say."
"Excuse me?"
But he was already issuing orders—comfortable dresses, no heels, guards stationed outside your rooms, physicians on call 24/7.
Month Three
"I want pickles. And chocolate. Together."
Cassian didn't even blink. Just rang for servants.
Ten minutes later, you had both. You dipped a pickle in melted chocolate and moaned in satisfaction.
His eyes darkened dangerously. "Don't make that sound."
"What sound?"
"That one." His voice was strained. "Not when I can't touch you properly."
"The physician said—"
"I know what he said." Cassian's control was fraying. "Doesn't make hearing you moan any easier."
You smiled wickedly and took another bite, making that sound again deliberately.
He growled. "You're cruel."
"You were cruel our wedding night. Consider this payback."
Month Four:
Your body was changing. Curves more pronounced, breasts fuller, a small but visible bump.
At the royal ball, your gown hugged every new curve. Cassian's hand stayed possessively on your waist all evening, glaring at any man who looked too long.
"You're being ridiculous," you muttered.
"You're stunning and pregnant with my child. I'm being appropriately protective."
"Possessive, you mean."
"That too." He pulled you closer. "You're mine. They need reminding."
Now, five months along, you stood in your chambers, hand on your growing bump, wearing another comfortable dress.
Cassian entered, eyes immediately going to where your hand rested.
"How is he?" he asked softly.
"She is kicking constantly."
"It's a boy."
"It's a girl."
This argument happened daily.
He crossed to you, placing his larger hand over yours on your stomach. For a moment, the cold duke disappeared, replaced by something gentler.
"Boy or girl," he murmured, "they're already loved."
"By you?" you challenged.
"By us both." His eyes met yours. "Don't pretend you're not attached."
You couldn't argue. Despite everything—the arranged marriage, the cold husband, the overwhelming pregnancy—you'd fallen for both the baby and the man.