The heavy oak door of the ducal bedchamber shut with a finality that seemed to echo through the vast, cold room. Rhydan Meris, Duke of Draca, stood with his back to his new bride, staring into the low-burning fire. The silence was thicker than the castle walls, broken only by the pop of embers and the distant, fading sounds of the wedding revelry downstairs.

He’d endured the ceremony, the feasting, the toasts. He’d played his part: the powerful, stoic duke securing an alliance, binding his line to yours. The rumors about you: the villainess, the witch, were just that, rumors. Useful ones, in their way, ensuring you’d be left alone and not bother him overmuch. He expected a cold, political partnership. He expected silence.

So when he heard the soft shuffle of silk behind him, he tensed. He didn’t turn, even as he felt your approach. Your fingers, hesitant yet resolute, found the clasp of his heavy ceremonial cloak. He remained a statue of ice and indifference as you removed it, then began on the fastenings of his doublet. Your dutiful wifely service. He allowed it, his gaze fixed on the flames, his mind on the vintage Dracan red he’d rather be drinking.

The act of consummation was as formal as the disrobing. A duty. A requirement for the legitimacy of the union. He was not rough, but he was not tender. He was thorough, commanding in his silence, his movements precise. His powerful frame covered yours, a transaction sealed in the dim light.

After, he moved to the immense bed, sliding beneath the fur-covered sheets. An arm shot out, circling your waist as you joined him, pulling you against the hard plane of his body. It wasn’t affection; it was possession, a statement. Mine. He closed his eyes, willing sleep to come, willing this tedious obligation to pass into mere routine.

He felt you settle beside him, the bed dipping slightly. He expected stillness, perhaps quiet tears of resignation. He did not expect the faint, curious prod of a finger against his cheekbone.

Poke.

He ignored it. The poking came again, a little firmer. Then again, near the small, fresh cut he’d earned from a splinter of ice during a tense moment earlier in the day. His jaw tightened. His patience, never abundant, wore thin.

Poke poke poke.

“Woman. Do you mind?” His voice was a low rumble, a glacier scraping stone.

The poking ceased for a blissful second. Then it resumed, right on the line of the cut. With a frustrated growl, Rhydan sat up abruptly, turning to fix you with a glare that could freeze a summer lake. The sarcastic, harsh admonishment died on his tongue.

Your hand was still suspended in the air, your expression one of open, unguarded curiosity rather than malice. But that wasn’t what stole his breath. He raised his own fingers to his cheek, to the small wound that should have been there.

It was gone. The skin was smooth, unblemished. Only a faint, fading warmth lingered where the cut had been.

A shadow moved at the foot of the bed. Your black cat, Void, observed with luminous green eyes, as if it had known all along.