Dawn in the Duke's chambers was a different kind of quiet. It wasn't the oppressive silence of the East Wing, but a peaceful, shared stillness, broken only by the soft crackle of dying embers in the hearth and the steady, solid rhythm of Lysander's breathing beside me.
I awoke tangled in furs and the scent of him—sandalwood, frost, and something uniquely, essentially male. His arm was a heavy, possessive weight across my waist, his face, in sleep, stripped of its severe lines. He looked younger. Softer. The fearsome Duke was just a man, and the sight of him trusting enough to sleep so deeply beside me sent a wave of protectiveness so fierce it stole my breath.
This was the fantasy. The morning after. The quiet intimacy that readers craved after the storm of passion.
Careful not to wake him, I slipped from the bed, pulling on his discarded linen shirt. It fell to my mid-thigh, carrying his warmth and his scent. I padded to the window, looking out over the waking castle. From this height, in the heart of the West Wing, I could see the entire hierarchy laid out like a living map: servants scurrying in the lower courtyards, guards changing shifts on the walls, the smoke rising from the forge where Earl Frostforge's men would already be at work on the mysterious Uruk metal.
The world hadn't stopped because we had. The plot was still turning.
A soft sound from the bed made me turn. Lysander was awake, propped on one elbow, watching me. His stormy eyes were dark with sleep and something else—a warm, lazy possessiveness that made my toes curl into the cold stone floor.
"Come back to bed," he murmured, his voice a sleep-roughened rasp that was its own kind of seduction.
"The world is waiting, Your Grace," I said, a small smile playing on my lips.
"Let it wait." He held out a hand. It was a command, but it was also a plea.
I went to him. Because of course I did. This was the irresistible pull readers loved. He drew me down into the warmth of the furs, his hands skimming my hips under the shirt he'd worn.
"I could get used to seeing you in my clothes," he said, nuzzling the sensitive spot below my ear.
"I could get used to being in them," I breathed, arching into his touch.
But the real world, and its demands, were insistent. A firm, familiar knock sounded at the door. Not Valerius's dry rap. This was Captain Killian's solid, no-nonsense knock.
Lysander let out a groan of frustration that was both deeply masculine and utterly relatable. He dropped his forehead to my shoulder with a sigh. "The price of command," he muttered against my skin.
"The price of saving the world," I corrected softly.
He kissed my shoulder once, hard, then rose from the bed with a predator's grace, completely unselfconscious in his nakedness. He pulled on his trousers and called, "Enter."
Killian stepped in, his eyes carefully averted from the rumpled bed and me in it. "Your Grace. My Lady. Apologies for the intrusion." He held up a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. "From the Earl. He said you'd want to see this immediately."
Lysander took the bundle and unwrapped it. Inside lay a shard of the Uruk glaive, its surface now dull and pitted. Next to it was a lump of dark, raw ore that seemed to pulse with a faint, inner cold.
"The catalyst," Lysander said, picking up the ore. "He found it."
"Aye," Killian said. "Says it's 'Frost-Heart Ore.' Only found in one place. The same place the fire-berries grow."
The Heartfire. The place of our first almost-kiss, and the ambush. The place where the plot and the romance had irrevocably fused.
"The ore is the key to forging their weapons," I said, sitting up, the shirt pooling around me. I was still the strategist, even wrapped in the Duke's shirt. "And the fire-berries are the key to countering them. It's a closed system. A perfect, hostile ecosystem."
Lysander looked from the ore to me, his eyes alight with a fierce pride. "My brilliant wife." He turned to Killian. "Double the guard on the Frostfang approach. No one enters without my direct seal."
"Understood, Your Grace." Killian's eyes flickered to me for a fraction of a second, a new, deeper respect in his gaze. "There's more. The man we captured. The granary master. He's talking. Says he was pressured by a superior. The money wasn't for him."
Lysander went very still. "Who?"
Killian's jaw tightened. "He claims it was on the orders of Baron Hoff's steward. But he's scared. Says there's a 'pale man' he reported to. A man who wasn't from the North."
The side plot was converging. Greed and treason, tangled together with a mysterious external enemy.
"Keep him alive and talking," Lysander commanded, his voice like ice. "And bring me Hoff's steward. Quietly."
"It's already done, Your Grace." Killian bowed and left, closing the door behind him.
The room felt colder. The warmth of the bed was a memory. Lysander stood by the hearth, the shard of evil metal in one hand, the lump of cursed ore in the other. The black lines on his back seemed to darken, as if stirred by their proximity.
I went to him. I didn't speak. I simply pressed myself against his back, wrapping my arms around his waist, laying my cheek between his shoulder blades. I felt him shudder, then slowly relax into my touch.
"He sits at my council table," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "He eats my food. He dares to plot against me while looking me in the eye."
"Then we look back," I said softly. "And we see him for the fool he is."
He turned in my arms, his expression grim. "This 'pale man.' It has to be the Artificer's agent. Hoff is a traitor, but he's a blunt instrument. This is a scalpel."
"Then we need to perform surgery," I said, the medical metaphor coming naturally. "We need to remove the infected tissue without spilling the poison. We need to isolate Hoff, turn his allies against him, and draw out this 'pale man.' We make them think they're winning until they walk right into a trap."
A slow, terrifying smile spread across Lysander's face. It was the smile of a wolf that had just spotted the sheep. "A reception," he said, the strategist taking over. "We will throw a ball."
I blinked. "A ball?"
"The most extravagant ball the North has ever seen," he said, his mind racing ahead, weaving the new plan. "To celebrate our union. Everyone will be invited. Especially Baron Hoff." His eyes met mine, gleaming with cold fire. "We will give him the spotlight he craves. And we will watch him hang himself with it."
It was brilliant. It was ruthless. It was exactly the kind of political gameplay that kept readers on the edge of their seats.
He cupped my face, his thumb stroking my cheek. "You will wear the black diamonds. The ones mined from the deepest, coldest part of the Frostfangs. You will be every inch the untouchable Duchess of Ice. And I…" He leaned down, his lips a breath from mine. "I will be the Duke who is utterly, publicly, captivated by his wife. We will give them a performance they will never forget."
The romance was the bait. The ballroom was the battlefield. And our love was the weapon.
He kissed me then, not with the passion of the night before, but with a sharp, focused intensity that promised vengeance and victory.
When he pulled away, he was every inch the Cold Duke again, but now I was the fire in his veins.
"Come," he said, his voice ringing with authority. "We have a traitor to ruin and a ball to plan. The world is waiting."
And as I followed him, ready to play my part, I knew the readers were eating it up. This was the perfect blend: high-stakes political intrigue, a power couple united in purpose and passion, and the tantalizing promise of a glamorous, deadly ball where secrets would be revealed and enemies would fall. This was what sold. This was the good stuff.