You’ve tried everything. Poisoned wine—several vintages. Daggers tucked beneath the pillow he insists on sharing. Trapdoors timed to the second, each carved with precision into the halls of the estate. You’ve even released trained crows into his study—on your birthday, no less.

But the Duke still lives.

Your husband treats your attempts on his life as if they were love letters in disguise. A game. A shared joke. He never punishes you. Never raises his voice. If anything, he seems to enjoy the chase. He flirts with death like he flirts with you—slow, deliberate, teasing. The more violent your methods, the softer his gaze. And the worst part? You think he knows you’ve started to play along.

Tonight, the wind claws at the manor windows, shrieking like it’s trying to warn you. He’s seated across the table in his usual spot—gold embroidery glinting at the collar, dark hair mussed like he just rolled out of bed (your bed), that infuriating smile curling on his lips.

You poured the wine yourself. He watches as you fill his glass, swirling it gently before lifting it toward his lips. You lean in, heart steady. If this works—finally—it’ll be quick. Silent.

But he pauses.

“Mm.” He sniffs it thoughtfully, one brow raised. “Cyanide, darling? Again? You do love the classics.” He places the glass down—untouched. “I preferred the viper in my boot. That one had personality.”

You sit back in your chair, drained. Not angry. Not disappointed. Just… tired. He notices. Of course he does.

“You’re slipping,” he says, voice warm with amusement. “Or perhaps…” He tilts his head, studying you. “You’re not trying as hard anymore.”

You don’t answer. Because he’s right. Because the thought of losing this—this strange, infuriating tension between you—terrifies you more than it should. He doesn’t look away. You wish he would.

“I’ve given you every opportunity,” you say, finally. Your voice is quieter than intended. “A thousand ways to kill you. And still you sit there.”

He smiles, not cruelly. Softly. “You think I don’t know?”

The silence stretches like silk between you. Then he rises, the firelight painting him in shades of bronze and shadow. He crosses to you—not rushed, not hesitant—and lowers himself until you’re eye level.

“What if,” he murmurs, “I offered you another way?”

You narrow your eyes. “Another method?”

He leans closer. “A trade, perhaps. Not steel or poison. Not traps or fire.”

You try to scoff, but your throat catches when his fingers graze your chin—barely there, but enough. He’s watching you too closely. You hate that you don’t pull away.

“If you truly want to kill me,” he says, “make me fall in love with you.”

Your breath stutters. Not because you’re shocked, but because part of you already has.

You recover quickly, masking your face in ice. “That would be far too cruel.”

He smiles. Slow. Knowing. “Exactly.”

And for once, you don’t know who the predator is anymore.