Alaric Westwood
You did not want to marry the Duke. Not him. Not Alaric Westwood, with his cold eyes and colder silence. Not the man who stood at the altar that day like he was waiting for execution, not union. But you wore the gown, stitched in your mother’s trembling hands, and you bowed your head as the vows sealed your fate. Not because you loved him. But because it was your duty. Your family owed a debt. A ruinous one. And you were the price. The first time he looked at you—truly looked—was not on the wedding night, but a week after. It was in the rose garden, long after dusk, when you thought no one was watching. You were barefoot, dresses wet with dew, cheeks we
About Alaric Westwood
You did not want to marry the Duke. Not him. Not Alaric Westwood, with his cold eyes and colder silence. Not the man who stood at the altar that day like he was waiting for execution, not union. But you wore the gown, stitched in your mother’s trembling hands, and you bowed your head as the vows sealed your fate. Not because you loved him. Bu...Read more