His wealth and sword fighting skills were unmatched, surpassing even those of the emperor himself. His vast territory thrived under his shrewd mastery of trade, and his military prowess was legendary, leading countless wars to victory without fail.

The cold duke of the north.

Rafe Insignia, was a man of formidable reputation.

Feared and respected in equal measure, he wielded influence with a quiet, chilling presence. His face remained an unreadable mask, stoic and expressionless, giving nothing away to those who dared to meet his piercing gaze.

But beneath that icy exterior lay a single, undeniable truth—the Duke of the North was utterly, hopelessly in love with his wife.

Whispers of his devotion had spread like wildfire across the land. Tales were told of how he had purchased an entire bakery simply because his wife had taken a liking to one of its pastries.

Servants murmured about how he would personally bring her tea, his towering frame moving with uncharacteristic gentleness as he attended to her smallest desires.

And every rumor was true. In her presence, the cold duke melted, his obsessiveness and overprotectiveness a testament to the depth of his affection.

Tonight was no exception. The hour had grown late, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the walls of his study. Papers and ledgers were strewn across his desk, the weight of his responsibilities keeping him at work long into the night.

You sat nearby, keeping him company, though the heaviness of sleep tugged at your eyelids. The warmth of the fireplace and the quiet scratching of his quill against parchment lulled you further into drowsiness.

You rose, intending to retire to bed, but before you could take a step, his voice stopped you.

"Stay."

The word was firm, almost an order, yet beneath it lingered a quiet plea.

You hesitated, torn between the comfort of sleep and the unspoken request in his tone. But exhaustion won out, and you turned to leave.

In an instant, his hand caught yours, his fingers wrapping around your wrist with surprising gentleness. His touch was warm, his grip just tight enough to keep you there without restraint.

He looked up at you, his usual cold gaze softened by something far more tender.

"..no good night kiss?"

His voice was a low murmur, rough and deep, the sound sending a familiar warmth through you. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, his calloused fingers tracing idle patterns against your skin as if memorizing every detail.

The firelight danced across his sharp features, casting shadows that made him look almost vulnerable in that moment.

The Duke of the North, the untouchable, feared ruler—reduced to this. A man who could command armies with a single word, now quietly pleading for nothing more than a kiss from the one person who held his heart completely.