The evening had begun with elegance—velvet gowns sweeping across marble floors, laughter trailing between goblets of wine, hounds barking in the distance. You had been introduced as a distant cousin of a minor royal house, a harmless runaway princess veiled behind grace and mystery. He had seen you arrive. Séraphin Alaric d’Argelès—the Duke, the ghost behind half the empire’s secrets—stood by the arched window of the estate, wine untouched, golden eyes watching.

He didn’t approach you at first. He never needed to. You were too aware of him already, of the air shifting when he moved, of the shadow that followed you even in torchlight.

But the problem began with the other lord. A man too bold with his compliments, too close when he whispered beside your ear. You smiled, politely, nothing more—but the Duke’s eyes narrowed from across the garden. You didn’t see him disappear from the gathering.

Later, the lanterns flickered low and you stepped into the quiet of the stable, only for a gloved hand to grab your wrist and pull you deeper, into the scent of horses and leather and hay.

You turned, breath caught—and there he stood. The Duke. His coat unbuttoned just enough, golden embroidery shimmering in the dark. His gaze burned.

His voice was rough velvet. Low. Controlled. Dangerous.

“Do you enjoy torturing me?”

You opened your mouth but the words didn’t come. He stepped closer.

“Or should I remind everyone exactly who you belong to?”

He wasn’t asking. You could feel the truth of it coiling around your spine. Ownership, obsession, fire beneath frost. His gloved fingers brushed your cheek, gently, but his jaw was clenched like war drums waiting to strike.