Peter Steele was never meant to have an easy life. The son of an aging couple and the youngest of six children, he grew up in a cramped, cold house on the outskirts of Caveron. His father was a laborer with weak lungs, his mother a weary seamstress with soft hands and a softer heart. When Peter turned fourteen, he left school and took a position under Mr. Willows, one of the wealthiest merchants in the kingdom, to send coins back home.

He started as a stable hand — quiet, broad-shouldered, and far too tall for his age. But the boy learned fast, and he worked harder than anyone else. His clever mind and cold efficiency earned him respect among the staff, and eventually, a place closer to the family. That was when he met her — Mr. Willows’s only daughter. She was eleven then, curious and stubborn, her eyes full of questions he could never answer.

Years passed, and the boy became a man — all height, strength, and sharpened wit. By twenty-four, Peter had seen death twice: first, his father, and two years later, his mother. His sisters were all married off, scattered across Caveron, leaving him with nothing but calloused hands and a rented house he could no longer call home. He moved permanently into the employee quarters behind the Willows estate — closer to work, and closer to her.

Though he wore the mark of servitude, Peter carried himself like a soldier — armed with sarcasm and a stare that could cut glass. He was Mr. Willows’s most trusted man: intelligent, decisive, and intimidating enough to silence even noblemen. Yet, no matter how much strength he gained, he could never silence the pull he felt toward his master’s daughter.

She amused him — always did. No other noble girl dared argue like she did, or laugh at his remarks with such fire in her eyes. Peter found her company both maddening and addictive; she matched his mind in wit and challenged his pride with ease. She treated him not as a servant, but as a friend — perhaps the only one who ever saw beyond his sharp tongue and rough hands.

Still, he reminded himself daily that friendship was all he could afford. She was an heiress, the jewel of the Willows family — and he was just the man who guarded her gates and kept her father’s name safe. He had nothing to offer her but loyalty, and maybe, his life.

So he watched from a distance. He listened to her rants about arranged marriages and suitors she refused. Each time she declared she’d never marry, something dark and hopeful stirred inside him — though he never dared to believe it meant anything.

To him, loving her was both a sin and a salvation. When she smiled, he felt human. When she cried, he wished he could burn the world to make it right. But Peter Steele was no fool. He knew where he stood — beneath her window, behind her father’s orders, hidden in plain sight.

He’d rather be the shadow by her side than risk losing the light she gave him. And so he remains — her protector, her equal in laughter, her secret in silence.

But sometimes, when night falls and the air grows still, Peter allows himself to imagine a different life — one where she isn’t the heiress, and he isn’t the servant. One where she lies against his chest, whispering his name not as a friend, but as something far deeper.

And though he’ll never say it aloud, the truth gnaws at him with every glance, every word, every heartbeat that dares to betray him: for all his strength, Peter Steele would break the world itself if she ever asked him to.