The wedding was a bleak, perfunctory affair. It took place in the de Winter family chapel, devoid of the floral excesses Seraphina would have demanded. The only guests were our families, the required legal witnesses, and Master Theron, who looked upon the ceremony with the same dispassion he'd shown the betrothal contract. Lysander Blackwood stood at the altar, a statue carved of shadow and ice, his expression never shifting from detached indifference. He spoke his vows in a clear, cold tone that held not a shred of emotion. I did the same, my voice the only warm thing in the frigid air, though the warmth was a lie.
There was no kiss to seal the union. He simply took my hand—his touch like polished marble—and slid a heavy band of black platinum onto my finger. It was beautiful, intricate, and colder than anything I had ever worn. It felt less like a ring and more like a manacle.
An hour later, I was handed into a black lacquered carriage bearing the Blackwood crest—a stark, terrifying wolf with ice-blue eyes. My new husband followed, settling into the seat opposite me with a rustle of fine wool and leather. The door shut, plunging us into a dim, intimate silence broken only by the clatter of the hooves and the creak of the wheels.
The journey had begun.
For the first few hours, the silence was absolute. Lysander either stared out the window at the passing countryside or closed his eyes, feigning sleep or, more likely, dismissing my existence entirely. I followed his lead, turning my own gaze to the world outside.
The vibrant, manicured landscapes of the capital slowly gave way to wilder, more rugged terrain. The air that seeped through the carriage window grew sharper, cleaner, carrying the scent of pine and cold earth. We were climbing. The oppressive weight of the court and its gossip began to feel distant, a toxic dream I was finally waking from.
Yet, inside the carriage, the pressure was even greater. The space was too small, the man across from me too large, too present. I could see the details I'd missed before: a faint, pale scar that bisected his left eyebrow, the impossible length of his lashes against his cheek, the way his hands, currently resting on his knees, looked both capable of elegant diplomacy and brutal violence. He was an enigma wrapped in a frosty exterior, and my life depended on unraveling him.
He was the first to break the silence, his eyes still closed. "The capital already fades from memory, does it not?"
His voice, in the confined space, was an intimate shock. It wasn't loud, but it seemed to vibrate through the very frame of the carriage.
"It feels like a different life," I replied honestly, my own voice soft.
His eyes opened then, and that stormy grey gaze pinned me in place. "It was. That life is over. You would do well to forget it."
It was less advice and more a command. A warning not to bring the drama of the court to his doorstep.
"I have no desire to remember it," I said, holding his gaze. "I am interested in the future. My future."
A corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile. It was an assessment. "Your future is now tied to the North. See that you remember that as well."
He lapsed back into silence, but the air had changed. A line of communication, however fragile and frosty, had been opened.
The second day, he spoke again. This time, it was about the land itself. He pointed out a particular type of hardy spruce that grew on the mountainsides. "They withstand blizzards that would shatter oak," he said, his tone that of a lecturer. "Their roots are shallow but widespread, allowing them to find purchase in thin soil. Flexibility and adaptability are greater strengths than brute force in my territory."
It was a lesson. I nodded, storing the information away. He was teaching me the rules of survival in his world.
On the third day, as we traveled a narrow road that skirted a deep ravine, it happened.
There was no warning. Just the sudden, sickening thud of an arrow embedding itself into the doorframe beside my window, followed by the panicked whinny of the horses.
Lysander's eyes snapped open, all languid indifference gone in an instant. In one fluid motion, he was across the carriage, his body covering mine, pressing me down into the seat just as a volley of arrows thudded into the side of the vehicle.
"Stay down," he commanded, his voice a low growl against my ear. His weight was immense, a solid, protective shield.
Shouts and the ring of steel came from outside—his guards engaging the attackers. The carriage rocked violently. I heard a gurgled cry, the sound of something—or someone—falling.
Lysander didn't flinch. He remained poised over me, one arm braced on the seat behind my head, his body a cage of muscle and tension. I could feel the steady, powerful beat of his heart against my back, a stark contrast to my own frantic hammering. He smelled of winter air, leather, and something uniquely, dangerously male.
As quickly as it began, it was over. The sounds of fighting ceased. A guard's voice, slightly winded, called out. "The road is clear, Your Grace. Bandits. They've been dealt with."
Lysander didn't move immediately. He stayed there for a long moment, his head tilted, listening for any further threat. I was trapped, utterly and completely, not by the attack, but by him. By the shocking, unexpected safety I felt in his embrace.
Finally, he pushed himself upright, his movements economical and precise. He didn't look at me. He leaned out the shattered window to assess the damage. "Casualties?"
"None of ours, Your Grace. Four of theirs. The rest fled."
"Good. Continue."
He settled back into his seat opposite me. There was a single, faint smear of blood on his pristine white cuff. He noticed it, frowned with distaste, and dabbed it away with a handkerchief.
His composure was absolute. It was as if a sudden, violent storm had passed through, leaving him utterly unchanged. But I was changed. I had seen the lethal grace beneath the noble facade. I had felt the terrifying efficiency of his protection.
The man across from me was not just a Duke. He was a warrior. And for the first time since proposing this insane pact, I felt a flicker of something other than fear.
It was the beginnings of trust. And that, I realized with a fresh wave of dread, was far more dangerous than any bandit's arrow.