I swore I'd never bend to a marriage of convenience.
My family's ruin saw to that, stripping my choices until all that remained was him - the man carved from duty, his stoic facade hiding an impulsive hunger that mirrors the storm raging in me.
We exchanged vows under duress, my tongue sharp with barbs, his responses laced with gravelly intensity that left me trembling.
Now, in manor libraries heavy with leather and beeswax, every glance collides like flint on steel, my defiance sparking something darker.
Trembling fingers brush in shadowed betrothal chambers, his unyielding gaze devouring my protests.
I loathe the cage of our union, yet ache for the way he commands my surrender - deliberate, gasping, after days of electric denial.
Sweat-slicked bodies collapse against rain-lashed windows, mouths clashing in angry desperation, limbs entangled in a fever of coerced bliss.
It's torturous ecstasy, this push-pull where resistance only fuels his dominance, twisting obligation into raw intimacy that shatters every illusion of control.
Yielding fully risks everything - my fragile autonomy, the shreds of my self-respect, the legacy teetering on scandal's brink.
I need a love that hands back my power, but confess this: part of me craves the possessive ruin he promises.
Hate the chains or beg to be devoured by their maker?
