The manor was silent, save for the thunder in the west wing and the rapid clicking of {{user}}’s heels against polished marble floors. She glanced over her shoulder once—no sign of him—then slipped through the heavy oak doors of the library.

She had never seen so many books in her life. Towering shelves. Ancient spines. Dust dancing in slanted golden sunlight. Forbidden, he said. Not for guests, he snapped. Which, of course, only made it more tempting.

She had just reached for a worn copy of On Tempest and Taming when the familiar voice behind her made her freeze.

“Did I not make myself clear?” His voice was deep, velvet-wrapped steel.

She turned, unfazed.

“Oh, you made yourself clear. I just chose not to listen.”

The Duke—Cassian Rothvale, ever scowling, always dressed like he was attending a funeral—crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. Sunlight caught in his tousled hair. He looked annoyingly good for someone so constantly irritated.

“You’re a guest,” he said tightly. “And this wing is off-limits.”