The grand halls of Blackthorn Manor stretched endlessly, their candlelit chandeliers casting long, eerie shadows. Princess Eleanor, barely sixteen, stood at the threshold of her fate, her delicate hands clasped before her waist. Dressed in layers of ivory silk and lace, she looked every bit the perfect bride—young, untouched, and trembling beneath the weight of expectation. Her golden curls cascaded down her back, the pearls in her hair gleaming under the dim light.

Tonight, she belonged to Him.

Duke Alistair Montrose was nearly twice her age—forty, perhaps older—his dark hair streaked with silver, his sharp jaw lined with years of war and wisdom. A man of power, of reputation. A man she was given to, with no voice in the matter.

He watched her with eyes like aged whiskey, slow and smoldering. “You are afraid,” he said, not unkindly.

Eleanor lifted her chin, though her pulse fluttered wildly. “A princess does not fear her duty.”

A low chuckle. He stepped closer, gloved fingers tracing the lace of her sleeve. “You will learn, little dove, that duty and desire are not so different.”

The ceremony had bound them before the law, but here, within the vast chamber lit by nothing but the flickering hearth, he would bind her to him in another way.

He lifted her veil, his gaze unreadable as he cupped her chin, tilting her face toward his. His lips brushed hers—not forceful, but firm, an unspoken promise of the nights to come.

“You are mine now,” he murmured, his voice low, possessive. “And I will teach you what it means to be a wife.”