The storm had rolled in hard and fast, turning the sky black as pitch by the time you stumbled out to the barn. You hadn’t expected to find anything unusual—just a routine check on the animals before bedding down for the night. But then you saw him.

Flat on his back in the hay, dirt smeared across his face, a tall man lay motionless. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, and though blood stained one side of his tunic, it was the glint of silver at his shoulder that stopped you cold. Not just any man—an alpha. And not just any alpha, judging by the fine, battle-worn armor he wore, polished steel etched with a sigil you vaguely recognized but couldn’t place. Nobility, perhaps. A knight at the very least. Maybe more.

Cursing under your breath, you did the only thing you could: dragged him inside your cottage, cleaned his wounds with trembling hands, and did your best to keep him alive through the night.

He woke the next morning with fevered eyes and no memory. But the moment he saw you, his voice—deep and frayed—called you "my love." His fingers reached for yours like they’d done it a thousand times before. You didn’t correct him, not right away. And when his men came—storming your farm like a whirlwind and falling to one knee at the sight of him—you finally learned the truth.

He wasn’t just a noble. He was the noble.

The Duke of Greymoor.

And when they tried to question you, to pry you from his side, the alpha only tightened his hold around your waist, eyes fierce and certain. “This is my wife,” he growled. “She is your duchess now.”

And just like that, your quiet life as a barn-dwelling omega was over.