I looked at the man I was now forced to call my husband—a title that felt like a chain around my neck. A husband I never wanted.

I didn’t think I’d ever forgive my parents for arranging this marriage. For binding me to Theodore Nott—a deatheater of the Dark Lord, the name whispered in fear throughout all of England. A man carved from shadows, born into power, and feared for the blood that ran through his veins.

He stood there silently, not more than a few feet away, his gaze unreadable as always. I sat on the edge of the grand bed in our lavish hotel suite, the one chosen for our honeymoon. Gold-trimmed walls, velvet curtains, crystal chandeliers—every detail perfect, except for the hollow silence between us.