Three years ago

The grand halls of Edencourt Palace echoed with the clinking of goblets and murmurs of judgment. Dressed in white silk that clung to her full curves, the new Duchess stood still beside her towering husband, a quiet fire burning behind her downcast eyes.

She was once Lady Evelyne Arlette of House Vernal, the youngest daughter of a powerless Count, often overlooked in court and dismissed in noble gossip. Her beauty was undeniable—petite yet luscious, with soft plum thighs, an impossibly small waist, and breasts that defied her dainty stature. A walking contradiction, and an object of quiet male obsession at balls, yet she had nothing but her body to offer. No army. No alliance. No fortune.

Which was precisely why Duke Alaric Thorne chose her.

Standing at 6'5", Duke Alaric was as stoic as he was powerful. With silver-streaked dark hair, broad shoulders, and a voice that could command a battalion or lull a woman to ruin, he was the kingdom's most sought-after bachelor—until he shocked everyone by choosing Evelyne. Whispers had flooded court for weeks: Why her? What’s his game?

The answer was simple: neutrality.

Alaric didn’t want war, alliance, or chaos. Marrying a powerless beauty gave him peace. Her family was too weak to demand anything, too obscure to drag him into scandal. And yet... when he looked at her across the altar, there was a flicker—curiosity? Hunger?

She had thought him cold. Intimidating. A stone-faced warrior too refined to be cruel. She expected silence, a separate bedroom, and cold glances. What she got, instead, was far more complicated.

Their wedding night was a blur of silk and surprise. He was gentle, careful even, but not indifferent. And when he took her, he worshipped her body with a reverence that confused her. They barely spoke, but in bed, they were fire and storm.

For three years, that strange rhythm held. Cold during the day—formal dinners, scheduled conversations, nods in passing—and then, at night, her breasts crushed against his bare chest, her cries echoing off chamber walls. She gave him a son, then a daughter. He never once left her side during childbirth, his jaw clenched, fingers bloodied from gripping too hard.

But love? No. That was never spoken of. That was dangerous. Unnecessary.

Until one dawn, after a particularly messy night…

Here is my first Novel please give it lots of love.... This was the prologue. Also check out my other works if this interests you. Thank you so much!!!

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Also, the physical appearance of both the leads is fictional... So please Don't make them seem as some ideal body type…Also, they could be a little Cold but like every story there is always love.

See you in the next chapter bye bye...Please do like all chapters...Thank you for opening my work once again!!!

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Three years ago

The chapel smelled of jasmine and wax. Bells tolled low and slow, their sound a dirge more than a celebration. The air inside was tense, not from anticipation but confusion.

Lady Evelyne Arlette Vernal stood with her chin slightly raised, every inch of her small body wrapped in ivory lace and silk, looking more like an offering than a bride. Her hair, dark and thick, was braided with pearls. Her eyes didn’t smile. They didn’t even pretend.

Duke Alaric Thorne, tall and imposing in black velvet, stood beside her like a wall of iron. Unbothered. Distant. Regal. His cold gaze scanned the clergy, the nobility, the courtiers who had come out of curiosity rather than well wishes.

No one believed this marriage was for love.

Evelyne, daughter of a nearly forgotten count, had no political clout. No inheritance. Not even a brother to carry her name forward. In the marriage market, she was a body with a name—petite, scandalously shaped, and famously untouched.

And the Duke? He had everything. Gold mines. Shipping routes. Armies. And most dangerous of all—no allegiance. He refused to side with the North or the South, played no part in royal schemes. He stayed in his estate and ruled from afar.

When he announced he’d marry Evelyne, the court was stunned.

They said he wanted silence, and she came from a family too weak to speak. They said he wanted peace, and she brought no war. But no one could deny the truth that hung between them as they said their vows:

She was beautiful. Devastatingly so.

And he wanted her.

**

That first night, she braced herself. For cruelty. For indifference. For ownership.

What she received instead was a man who moved slowly, silently. He undressed her with gentle hands, studied her face for signs of fear. When he touched her, it was with the kind of reverence she’d never expected from a man like him. His mouth lingered on her skin, worshipping the curves he’d chosen.

And when he entered her, she realized something strange—he was holding back.

They barely spoke that night. He kissed her once, on the mouth, and again between her thighs. And afterward, he helped clean her, tucked her into bed, and said only:

"Sleep, Duchess."

**

Years passed in a blur of quiet ritual. Formal dinners. Short, cold conversations. A nod when he passed her in the halls. They had separate chambers, but she found herself in his often.

Sometimes it was her seeking him. Sometimes it was him, pushing her against the bedroom wall before lifting her onto his lap like she weighed nothing. They didn’t kiss often. Didn’t cuddle. But he touched her like she was sacred. And in those moments, Evelyne could pretend he cared.

Their first son, Alric Jr., came just a year after the wedding. Alaric never left her side during labor. He didn't say a word, but held her hand so tightly it turned white.

Their daughter, Elise, followed a year later. Another long night of pain and silence. And again, he was there. His forehead had been damp with sweat when the midwife handed over the baby. Evelyne had seen something flicker in his eyes then. Not love. But something close.

She began to notice the small things. The way he checked on the children himself before bed. The way he left warm towels in her room on stormy nights. The way he never touched another woman.

And yet... they barely knew each other. She didn’t know his favorite color. He didn’t know her dreams. There were misunderstandings, awkward silences, assumptions never cleared.

Until one morning, when something finally shifted.

**

It was just before dawn. Pale light spilled through the sheer curtains of his chamber, casting a golden haze across the bed.

Evelyne stirred first, her head pressed against a warm chest. Her cheek rested just over his heart, which beat slow and strong beneath her. Her body was sprawled across his, soft breasts flattened against him, one leg thrown between his.

She blinked sleepily, her lips brushing his collarbone as she breathed.

Alaric’s eyes opened to the sight of her—tousled, warm, so soft against his hardness. Her breasts were pressed full and heavy against him, the perfect curve of her ass nestled against his thigh. Her hair smelled like lavender.

His cock stirred without apology.

He swallowed hard, careful not to move too suddenly. But then her thigh shifted just a little, brushing where he was already stiff. And she sighed—innocently, sleepily—and rubbed her cheek against his chest like a kitten.

He groaned under his breath.

She stirred again. This time, she blinked up at him, eyes hazy, lips soft and swollen from the night before.

“…Morning,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

Gods help him, she was perfect.

“Morning,” he rasped back.

Their eyes held. There was no pretense in that moment. No coldness. No distance. Just heat.

And something more.

Something dangerous.

Something that might ruin the delicate balance they had.

But neither of them moved.

And neither of them looked away.

Evelyne felt it before she fully registered the look in his eyes.

That unmistakable press against her inner thigh. Hard. Hot. Demanding.

Her cheeks flamed, but she didn’t move. Her body betrayed her before her mind caught up—her breasts tightened, nipples stiffening where they flattened against his chest. She’d lain like this before, tangled around him after long nights, but something about this morning felt different.

She tilted her head, slightly, enough to meet his gaze.

His eyes were darker than usual. Heated. Hungry. But it wasn’t just lust she saw—it was something deeper. Something… unsettled.

“Are you going to pretend you don’t feel it?” he murmured, voice low, rough with sleep and need.

Her lips parted in surprise. The Duke never teased. He commanded, he touched, he took—but he never joked. Never played.

“I—” she started, but her breath hitched when his fingers slid up the curve of her back, calloused and possessive, tracing the dip of her waist before resting just above the swell of her hips.

“You’re warm,” he whispered, more to himself than to her.

“So are you,” she managed, her voice breathy. Her chest rose and fell against him, every movement brushing those sensitive tips against his bare skin.

He exhaled sharply. Then, before she could think, he flipped them—smooth, sudden, effortless.

She gasped as her back met the mattress, her thighs parted instinctively by the size of him between. Her nightgown rode up, baring her creamy thighs and the lush curve of her round buttocks. He stared down at her, his silver-streaked hair falling slightly over his brow.

“Do you regret last night?” he asked, his tone still unreadable.

“No,” she said softly. “Do you?”

His jaw tightened. “No.”

Silence stretched between them. And then—

“I like this,” he said, running a hand over her thigh, squeezing the soft flesh. “When you lie on me like that. Pressed against me. Your breasts...” His hand moved up, cupping one through the thin fabric of her nightgown, rubbing his thumb over her already stiff nipple. “…driving me mad.”

Heat coiled low in her belly.

“You’ve never said things like that before,” she breathed.

“I’ve thought them every damn night for three years,” he replied, eyes flicking from her lips to her chest.

Evelyne arched into his touch, shocked at her own boldness. But something about this moment—this dawn, this honesty—it undid her.

“Then show me,” she whispered.

That was all he needed.

He surged forward, capturing her mouth in a kiss that stole her breath. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t patient. It was three years of unsaid words, three years of aching glances and unspoken tension. His tongue swept in, claiming. Demanding.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, wrapping around his thick biceps as he rolled his hips against her, grinding into the soft heat between her thighs.

Her nightgown was ripped. Not pushed up—ripped.

And he didn’t look away as her breasts spilled free. He groaned—a sound of pure, male torment—and buried his face between them, kissing, biting, sucking like a starved man.

She cried out, fingers clutching his hair. He lifted one of her legs over his shoulder, exposing her entirely, then reached down and slid two thick fingers inside her without warning.

She was soaked.

“So tight,” he growled. “Every time.”

“You’re not exactly small,” she gasped, trembling as he curled his fingers just right.

He smirked. “No complaints, I hope?”

“Only that you stopped,” she panted.

He gave a dark laugh before lining himself up, dragging the thick head of his cock through her wet folds before slowly sinking into her—inch by devastating inch.

Her mouth fell open in a silent scream. He filled her completely, stretching her in ways that made her toes curl and her vision blur.

Once seated fully inside, he didn’t move.

Instead, he looked at her.

And for the first time, she saw the truth in his gaze.

He cared.

He cared more than he dared to admit.

“I won’t be gentle,” he warned.

“I don’t want gentle.”

He grinned. “Good.”

Then he moved.

And the dawn lit their skin in gold as they unraveled each other.

Again.

And again.

And again.