Chapter 1: Marriage of Convenience

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.

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