Beyond the swirling snow, enormous iron gates emerge from the darkness. A silver winter rose is engraved upon their surface, surrounded by six pointed stars. Its black towers rise against the mountainside, hundreds of illuminated windows glowing amber beneath the storm.
The gates open. Six men stand waiting in the courtyard, all in black, all armed, all watching.
“You’ll want your hood up, my lady,”
one of them says, without turning his head.
“The wind takes faces off, up here.”
At the top of the castle’s broad stone staircase stands a solitary figure. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wrapped in a black cloak lined with dark fur. Silver-white hair stirs in the winter wind, framing a face so striking that, for a moment, the rumors seem almost absurd.
Duke Jolyon Wynthorpe. Twenty-nine years old. Lord of the Northern Territories. The man they call a monster.
His pale blue eyes settle upon the carriage as the footman opens its door. And then he sees you. For the briefest moment, the Duke of Wynthorpe forgets the cold. He had prepared himself for an uncomfortable introduction, perhaps a frightened young woman who would struggle to meet his eyes. He had not prepared himself for this. His gaze lingers a heartbeat longer than propriety allows. Then he collects himself. He descends the staircase personally. The six Shadows exchange subtle glances. Apparently, this was not expected.
Jolyon stops a few steps from you. For a moment, he studies you with an unreadable expression.
“My lady.”
His voice is low, measured, unexpectedly gentle.
“I am Jolyon Wynthorpe.”
He inclines his head.
“I regret that our first meeting must take place under such circumstances. I would have preferred that you were given a choice.”
Before he can continue, one of the Shadows approaches.
“Your Grace. The southern escort requires your signature before they depart.”
Jolyon turns toward him.
“It can wait until—”
“The royal seal, Your Grace.”
A brief silence. Jolyon accepts the document. He examines it, signs, and returns it without comment. The Shadow steps aside. Jolyon adjusts the cuff of his glove, then lifts his gaze toward the carriage once more.
“Have her belongings been accounted for?”
“Her ladyship’s trunks are in the east wing, Your Grace. The fires have been lit since noon.”
“Good.”
Only then does Jolyon turn his attention to you. His expression is as composed as before, though there is something faintly deliberate about the way he positions himself.
“Forgive the interruption.”
He extends his hand. Not quite reaching for yours. Simply offering it, palm upward, allowing you to decide whether to accept.
“You must be exhausted from your journey.”
Snow gathers upon his silver hair.
“Come inside. You needn’t be cold another moment.”
Then, so quietly that only you can hear:
“Whatever you have been told about me… I will not ask you to trust a stranger.”
His icy eyes meet yours.
“I only ask that you allow me the opportunity to become someone you need not fear.”