The study was dimly lit, the golden glow of candlelight flickering against the dark oak shelves that lined the walls. The air smelled of aged parchment, whiskey, and something colder—something unspoken. A storm raged beyond the grand windows of Blackmoor Manor, lightning streaking the sky like fractured glass.

Duke Cassius Vale stood near the hearth, one hand resting on the edge of the marble mantle, the other wrapped around a crystal tumbler half-filled with amber liquid. His piercing gaze was fixed on the flames, yet his mind was elsewhere—calculating, planning.

He did not turn when the door creaked open. He did not need to. The presence of his most trusted man was as familiar to him as his own shadow.

“Is everything in place?” Cassius asked, his voice a smooth, lethal whisper.

A figure stepped forward, clad in black, his expression grim yet unwavering. “Yes, Your Grace. She will be taken before the first light of dawn. Discreetly. No blood, as you requested.”

Cassius exhaled slowly, his grip on the tumbler tightening. “Good.”

“She will be frightened.” The man hesitated, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. “She is an innocent, after all.”

A muscle in Cassius’s jaw twitched. He knew that. He had known it from the moment he set his sights on Seraphina Wren. She was not like her father. She had not played a role in his treachery. And yet—

“She is the only way to bring Lord Wren to his knees,” Cassius said coolly, his voice void of hesitation. “I do not require her suffering, only her presence.”

The man nodded but said nothing.

Cassius turned then, his storm-gray eyes unreadable. “She is to be unharmed. No bruises. No unnecessary force. I want her terrified but untouched.”

The words were calculated, precise. He was not a monster. He had no desire to break her—only to use her. And if fate were kind, she would come to understand that.

His gaze darkened.

“She will wake in Blackmoor Manor,” he murmured, almost to himself. “And when she does, she will learn what it means to belong to me.”

The room fell into silence, save for the whisper of the storm outside.

And with that, the order was given.

The wind howled through the trees, carrying with it an eerie whisper of fate. The grand estate of Wren Manor stood bathed in moonlight, its towering silhouette casting long, ghostly shadows across the manicured gardens. Inside, Lady Seraphina Wren lay wrapped in silk sheets, lost in the fragile world between wakefulness and dreams.

A sudden noise shattered the silence.

Her breath caught as she stirred, the fine hairs on her arms rising. Footsteps—soft yet purposeful—crept through the halls outside her chamber. Her heart pounded against her ribs, a frantic beat of warning. Before she could react, a gloved hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the scream that surged up her throat.

“Not a sound,” a voice rasped against her ear, low and commanding.

Darkness swallowed her whole as a cloth pressed against her nose, the sickly-sweet scent of chloroform drowning her senses. The world tilted, her body growing weightless, until all that remained was an endless void.

Seraphina awoke to the sensation of cool air caressing her skin. The scent of damp stone and burning firewood filled her nostrils. She blinked, her vision swimming into focus, and took in her surroundings. The lavish, candlelit chamber was unfamiliar—ornate tapestries adorned the walls, their deep crimson hues absorbing the flickering light. A grand four-poster bed stood in the center, dark and imposing. Heavy drapes concealed the windows, shrouding the room in secrecy.

Her wrists burned. Tugging, she found them bound with silk—firm, yet not cruel. Panic flared in her chest as she struggled to sit up, her limbs trembling with the aftereffects of whatever had been used to subdue her.

The door creaked open.

A tall, broad-shouldered figure entered, his very presence commanding the space. He was clad in a finely tailored black coat, the crisp white of his shirt stark against the darkness that clung to him like a second skin. Midnight hair framed sharp, aristocratic features, and when his cold, piercing eyes met hers, the air seemed to still.

“Lady Wren,” he intoned, his voice as smooth as velvet yet edged with steel. “You are finally awake.”

Seraphina swallowed hard, her pulse a frantic rhythm. “Who are you? Why have you brought me here?”

The man stepped closer, the firelight casting shadows across his chiseled jaw. “I am Duke Cassius Vale.”

The name struck her like a thunderclap. The Duke of Blackmoor. A man whispered about in hushed tones—ruthless, enigmatic, and feared throughout the realm.

Seraphina’s fingers curled into fists. “What do you want from me?”

Cassius studied her, his gaze unreadable. Then, after a long, deliberate pause, he uttered the words that would seal her fate.

“You belong to me now.”

fixed on the endless horizon. The moon, full and brilliant, bathed Wren Manor in silver light, casting long shadows across the garden below. A restless wind stirred her dark curls, whispering secrets only she could hear.

Tomorrow, I’ll be gone.

Her fingers tightened around the stone railing. She had planned every step carefully—at dawn, before the servants awoke, she would slip out through the servant’s passage, ride to the coast, and board the ship that awaited her. No arranged marriage. No life of silent obedience. Just freedom.

A knock at the door shattered her thoughts.

She turned just as the heavy oak door creaked open, revealing the imposing figure of her father. Lord Alistair Wren was dressed impeccably, as always, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed back, his sharp eyes taking in her disheveled nightgown and the bare feet peeking beneath the hem.

“You’re still awake.” His voice was calm, yet laced with something unreadable.

Seraphina swallowed, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Lord Wren stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The flickering candlelight illuminated the lines of age and authority etched into his face. “Your mother used to do the same before a grand event,” he mused, crossing the room. “Tomorrow is important, Seraphina. You should be well-rested.”

Tomorrow. The day she was meant to announce her engagement to Lord Ashford.

The thought made her stomach twist.

“I was just… thinking about the future,” she said carefully.

Her father studied her for a long moment, then exhaled, rubbing his temple. “You will be happy, Seraphina. I know you think this is unfair, but Lord Ashford is a respectable man. He will care for you.”

“He is twice my age,” she snapped before she could stop herself.

Lord Wren’s gaze hardened. “He is powerful. He will protect you.”

“I don’t need a husband to protect me.”

“You are too headstrong for your own good.” His voice turned cold. “If you refuse this match, you will have nothing.”

Seraphina’s heart pounded. He would never understand.

“Then I will take nothing over a life in chains.”

For a brief moment, something flickered across her father’s face—anger, regret, or perhaps fear. But just as quickly, it vanished, replaced by a stony mask.

“You are my daughter, and you will obey,” he said simply. “Tomorrow, you will stand beside Lord Ashford and smile.”

She held his gaze, refusing to back down, but he had already turned for the door.

“Sleep well, Seraphina,” he said over his shoulder. “This is the last night you will ever spend as a free woman.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Seraphina stood frozen, her pulse roaring in her ears. Her breath came fast, her hands trembling at her sides.

No. This is the last night I will ever spend in this house.

She had no choice. She had to run.

But fate had other plans.

That night, before she could escape, masked men came for her.

Seraphina’s breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as the haze of unconsciousness lifted. The dull pounding in her skull made it difficult to think, her senses sluggish from whatever had been used to subdue her. The lingering scent of chloroform clung to her skin, a sickly-sweet reminder of the night that had changed everything.

She forced her heavy eyelids open, and panic struck her like a blade.

This was not her bedroom.

Moonlight spilled through a sliver of parted curtains, illuminating a grand chamber unlike any she had ever seen. The bed she lay upon was massive, draped in deep crimson silk. Ornate sconces lined the stone walls, their golden glow casting flickering shadows across the room. A fireplace crackled in the corner, the only source of warmth in the otherwise cold space.

She jerked upright, only to realize her wrists were bound. Not with rope or chains, but with silk ribbons. They were tied loosely, allowing for movement, yet the message was clear—she was meant to stay.

Seraphina's pulse thundered in her ears.

The last thing she remembered was the masked figures invading her chambers, the suffocating cloth pressed against her face. And now… now she was here.

A prisoner.

The heavy sound of a door unlocking sent a jolt of fear down her spine.

She turned sharply, her breath catching as a tall, imposing figure stepped into the room. He moved with an effortless grace, his presence consuming the space like a shadow stretching beneath the moon. His dark coat framed his broad shoulders, and his aristocratic features were chiseled into something both cruel and beautiful. But it was his eyes—stormy gray, cold as winter steel—that sent a shiver down her spine.

Seraphina swallowed. She knew who he was.

“Duke Vale,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from disuse.

Cassius Vale regarded her in silence for a long moment before stepping closer. The firelight flickered over his face, deepening the sharp planes of his cheekbones.

“You know my name,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet, yet edged with something unreadable. “Good. That will make this easier.”

Seraphina’s hands clenched into fists. “Why am I here?”

Cassius tilted his head slightly, as if amused by the fire in her tone. “Because I had you taken.”

Her stomach twisted. She had no illusions about the Duke of Blackmoor. The rumors surrounding him were endless—ruthless, unyielding, feared even by his own allies. But none of those whispers had prepared her for the reality of facing him, of being at his mercy.

Her breath was unsteady. “You’ve made a mistake. My father will—”

“Your father,” Cassius interrupted smoothly, stepping closer, “will do exactly as I wish now that I have you.”

A cold dread settled in her bones.

This was not about her.

This was about leverage.

Her father, Lord Wren, was a man of influence. Wealthy, politically connected, dangerous in his own right. But if the Duke of Blackmoor had gone to the lengths of abducting her, then it meant only one thing—

Cassius Vale intended to ruin him.

Seraphina lifted her chin, forcing steel into her voice despite the fear curling inside her. “And what do you expect me to do? Beg?”

Cassius’s lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. “No,” he murmured, reaching out.

She flinched as his fingers grazed the silk bindings at her wrist. He didn’t tighten them, didn’t pull—he merely let them rest there, a silent reminder of his control.

“I expect you to learn, Lady Wren,” he said softly, dangerously. “That your life as you knew it… is over.”

The finality in his words sent an icy chill through her veins.

She was no longer Lady Seraphina Wren, the daughter of a nobleman, safe within the gilded walls of her home.

She was his prisoner.

And she had no idea what he intended to do with her.