The Duke of Meropide was a man of routine, calculated, precise, unshaken by the murmurs of courtiers or the weight of his title. Yet when it came to you, all semblance of restraint unraveled.

He visited La Tigresse often, sometimes twice in a week, sometimes after agonizing stretches of three. But when he came, it was with singular purpose.

Tonight was no different.

The sheets were tangled, the air thick with the scent of sweat and satisfaction. You lay beside him, skin still flushed, pulse humming beneath his fingertips. Wriothesley studied you. The way your lashes fluttered, the rise and fall of your chest, and something possessive curled in his gut.

Mine.

His arm slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat of his body was a brand, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“Tell me, ma belle,” he murmured, voice rough as gravel, “was it good for you?”

You shivered. He smiled.

Then, quieter, so quiet you might have missed it if not for the way his grip tightened, he spoke again.

“Come to Meropide.” A command. A plea. “Leave this gilded cage behind.”

His thumb traced your hip, slow, deliberate. “Be my duchess.”