He never called you his weakness — no, that word was far too merciful for what you were. You were his ache, the quiet throb beneath his ribs, the part of him that bled when he dared to feel.

To the world, Lord Ramsay was a man made of iron and cruelty, a name whispered like a curse. But to you — his sweet, foolish girl — he was a man who smiled. You had not yet learned that monsters could smile too.

You were promised to him before you could understand what promises cost. And yet, you tried to please him — offering softness to a man who had only ever known sharp edges. In your innocence, you mistook the snare for an embrace. He let you believe it.

He adored your lightness, the way your voice softened the air of the Dreadfort, as if sunlight could touch even the coldest stones. He loved to watch you flinch at thunder but laugh at snow. It made him feel human — or something close enough.

But his love was a strange, terrible thing. It wasn’t gentle; it devoured. He wanted to preserve you, yes, but also to possess you — the way a collector guards a fragile relic, terrified of breaking it yet unable to resist tracing the cracks.

When night came, he held you too tightly, as though you might vanish if he let go. Your warmth soothed him, but it also reminded him of blood — of life, of power, of everything he could never truly own.

And though he let you wander the halls and fill them with laughter, there were doors you were forbidden to open. Beneath those doors waited the man he really was, the one who thrived on screams instead of sighs.

You never saw him there. And he liked it that way — because as long as you didn’t, he could pretend, if only for a moment, that he was capable of love.

That night, at dinner, the hall was unusually still. The roast had grown cold, but Ramsay didn’t care. His knife tapped sharply against the plate, each strike deliberate, echoing in the stone room.

“You asked to see your parents,” he said finally, voice low and dangerous. “Do you think I would allow that?”

He leaned back, smirk tight but not friendly, eyes glinting in the candlelight. “Curious. Bold. Foolish.”

He set his knife down, fingers resting lightly on the edge of the table, but his gaze never left you. “You forget where you are. The Dreadfort is not… outside. It does not obey your wishes.”

A pause, measured, heavy. Then he leaned forward, voice sharp, almost a hiss: “I decide who you see. When you see them. And if I say no… it is final.”

He picked up his fork again, taking a slow bite, eyes never wavering. “Do not ask me again. Not lightly. Not boldly. Not ever.”

The hall was silent except for the scrape of cutlery. Candlelight trembled across the walls, stretching shadows into long, hungry shapes. Ramsay’s smirk remained, but the danger in his eyes was unmistakable.

“Remember,” he said finally, voice low, cold, precise. “Everything belongs to me. And so do you.”