PREVIEW

"Do you think about sleeping with me?" he snarled, the words a toxic mix of challenge and dark amusement. The snarl twisted his handsome features into something far more sinister, a glimpse of the monster that lurked beneath the surface. It was a question loaded with danger, a test of her response under his unnerving scrutiny. Cerys felt her heart hammer against her ribs, a frantic beat that echoed the panic rising within her. The proximity, the heat of his body, the coldness in his eyes—all of it combined to leave her feeling as if she was standing on the precipice of a nightmare. His question, laden with implications and threats, left her no room for evasion.

Yet, in that moment, with the threat of his anger a tangible thing between them, Cerys found a reservoir of strength she didn't know she possessed. She understood that any show of fear or revulsion would only fuel his cruelty, and any display of desire, real or feigned, would be seen as submission to his will. With a calmness that belied the turmoil within, she managed to steady her voice. "I am merely here to fulfill my duty, as dictated by the emperor's decree." Her words were carefully neutral, a tightrope walk between defiance and submission.

Azrael's gaze on her lingered, as if searching for something hidden beneath her composed exterior. In a swift motion that left no room for anticipation or retreat, Azrael wrapped an arm around Cerys's waist, his grip ironclad and unyielding. He pulled her body against his, crushing her to his broad and muscular chest with an assertion of dominance that was both terrifying and absolute. The sudden proximity to him, the feel of his powerful physique against her, was overwhelming, a physical manifestation of the control he wielded over her.

His face hovered dangerously close to hers, his breath skating over her lips as he spoke, each word a deliberate stroke of intimidation. "You would not survive my bed," he whispered, the statement a dark promise that sent shivers down her spine. The underlying threat in his voice was clear, a sinister warning of the consequences should she fail to meet his expectations or challenge his authority.

Cerys's heart raced, her breath caught in her throat as the reality of her situation pressed in on her from all sides. Trapped in the embrace of a man who saw her not as a wife but as an object of possession, a means to an end, she felt the weight of her helplessness. The room seemed to close in around her, the air thick with the tension of his words, a suffocating blanket that left little room for hope.

Yet, even as fear clawed at her, a part of Cerys rebelled against the idea of succumbing to despair. She was caught in a nightmare, yes, but she was not without her own strengths. The resolve that had carried her this far, the courage that had allowed her to face Azrael's darkness, flickered within her like a beacon.

With a steadiness that belied the turmoil within, Cerys lifted her gaze to meet Azrael's, her voice a whisper of defiance. "Then it is fortunate, my Lord, that survival is something I have become adept at." Her words were a subtle challenge, a declaration of her determination not to be broken by him or by the cruel fate that had led her to this moment.

Azrael's response was a tightening of his grip, a nonverbal reminder of his physical superiority and the danger of provoking his wrath. Yet, there was a flicker of something in his eyes, a momentary flash that suggested her defiance had not gone unnoticed.

Despite the gravity of her situation and the clear danger that Azrael represented, Cerys couldn't help but find herself momentarily distracted by the sheer physicality of the man before her. His physique, a testament to strength and power, and his strikingly handsome face, were undeniably captivating. It was a disconcerting realization, the emergence of a wave of desire that clouded her judgment and sent a rush of heat coursing through her veins.

This involuntary attraction was a complicating factor she hadn't anticipated, a visceral response that seemed to betray her own resolve. Azrael, with his dark allure and commanding presence, embodied a paradox. Even as she stood there, caught in his embrace, Cerys fought to regain her composure. She was acutely conscious of the danger in allowing such distractions to take hold, the risk of weakening her position further by succumbing to feelings that could only be seen as a liability.

Determined to master these unwelcome emotions, Cerys focused on the reality of her situation. Azrael was her captor in many ways, a man who wielded power and cruelty with equal ease. The perilous dance of their interactions, fraught with dominance and defiance, allowed no room for the luxury of desire. She reminded herself of the need for vigilance, for strength that came not just from the mind but from the heart's ability to resist the lure of dangerous attractions.

With a deep, steadying breath, Cerys endeavored to push aside the confusion and focus on the strategy of survival. Azrael, as if sensing the turmoil within Cerys, leaned closer, his lips almost grazing the shell of her ear as he spoke, his voice a low whisper that sent a shiver down her spine. "Are you aware, my dear, of the duties that bind a husband and wife," he murmured, his breath warm against her skin, causing an involuntary tremble to pass through her. "It is not just a matter of politics or power. There are... expectations, desires that need to be fulfilled."

His words, deliberately provocative, were designed to unnerve her, to remind her of the physical aspects of their marriage that loomed large, yet unspoken, between them. The mention of her "duties" felt like a shackle, a cold chain that sought to bind her will to his desires. Cerys felt her heart race, her breath hitch at the implication of his words. The air between them charged with an intensity that was hard to ignore. His proximity, the heat of his body so close to hers, was an unspoken assertion of dominance, a reminder of the control he sought to exert over her in all aspects.

Yet, even as the weight of his expectations bore down on her, Cerys found a stubborn spark of defiance within herself. Drawing a shallow breath, she steadied her voice enough to reply, though she dared not turn to face him, aware that to do so would be to fall further into his trap. "I am well aware of my duties, my lord."

Azrael's reaction was a momentary tightening of his arm around her waist, a silent acknowledgment of her words. Whether it was respect or amusement that prompted his response, Cerys couldn't tell, her resolve hardening under the weight of Azrael's gaze and the proximity of his imposing figure, met his dark eyes with a fierceness born of desperation and a newfound courage. "I am not a child, my Lord," she declared, her voice steady despite the tremors that threatened to betray her inner turmoil. "I am fully aware of what transpires between a husband and wife. Your insinuations are neither needed nor appreciated."

Azrael's reaction was swift, a reflection of his nature, as he captured her jaw in his hand, drawing her face closer to his. His grip was firm, a clear assertion of control, yet not cruel—a balance that only heightened the intensity of the moment. He growled low, a sound that seemed to resonate with a primal warning, his breath fanning across her face, mingling with the cool night air that slipped through the slightly ajar window.

Azrael's voice was a low rumble, his words laced with a dangerous edge. "You are mine to instruct, mine to guide," he continued, his tone a blend of possessiveness and an unmistakable threat. "It is unfortunate that I cannot be a gentle lover to my dear innocent wife, yet her she is, willing to share my bed, I wonder why that is."

Cerys felt a chill run down her spine, not just from the cold air or the menace in Azrael's voice, but from the realization of the precarious balance she was forced to maintain. To survive Azrael's dangerous attention, she would need to be both resilient and cunning, to wield her intelligence as her weapon and her composure as her shield. Yet a part of her rebelled against the notion of being "instructed" or "guided" as if she were nothing more than property to be managed. The fire of defiance within her burned brighter at his words, fueling her determination to assert her own will, to find a way to stand on equal footing with the duke, no matter how daunting the task might seem.

Releasing her jaw, Azrael stepped back, his eyes never leaving hers, as if challenging her to respond, to defy him further. Cerys took a deep, steadying breath, her mind racing as she contemplated her next move. As the moment passed and Azrael finally turned away, Cerys allowed herself a brief moment of relief, tempered by the knowledge that this was merely the beginning. Azrael retreated to the window, where the moonlight cast a silver glow over a small table holding a solitary glass and a bottle of potent wine. With deliberate motions, he poured the dark liquid into the glass, its rich aroma filling the air, and drank it down in one long swallow. The wine was a temporary escape, a brief respite from the tension that crackled like a live wire between him and Cerys.

Turning to face her, his expression unreadable in the dim light, he commanded, "Leave for the night. We will not... consummate this marriage tonight." But Cerys, fueled by a mix of defiance and determination to not be dismissed so easily, stood her ground. "No, my Lord," she said, her voice carrying a strength that surprised even herself. "I will not leave. You cannot simply dismiss me on a whim."

Her refusal to leave, to back down, was a bold move, a gamble that she was well aware could provoke his anger or, perhaps, his respect. It was a declaration of her intention to not be overlooked or set aside, a challenge to his authority that she knew could have serious repercussions. Azrael's eyes narrowed at her refusal, a spark of interest—or was it irritation?—flickering in the depths of his gaze. The silence that stretched between them was heavy, charged with the unspoken tension of a battle of wills.

Finally, he set the glass down with a soft clink against the table, the sound seemingly loud in the quiet of the room. "You seem quite confident wife" he commented, his voice low, a dangerous edge to his words. In the end, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of unspoken thoughts, he turned away from her, his posture one of reluctant acceptance. "My wife," he conceded, the words sounding almost forced. "Our... duties will be fulfilled, but do not mistake this for anything more than it is."

Cerys watched him carefully, aware that this was neither a victory nor a defeat, but rather a precarious step towards understanding the complex dynamics of their forced union. Her heart raced with a mix of apprehension and a strange sense of achievement at having held her ground. As Azrael gestured for her to approach, Cerys steeled herself for what was to come, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. Azrael's call was a command wrapped in a challenge, his voice carrying across the room to where Cerys stood, a mix of determination and trepidation in her eyes. As she approached, the air between them seemed to crackle with an electric tension, a silent battle of wills that was both daunting and exhilarating.

Without a word, he reached out, his movements swift and assured, pulling her onto his lap with a strength that left no room for resistance. The sudden closeness, the warmth of his body against hers, sent a jolt of unexpected awareness through her, a reminder of the physical reality of their situation. His eyes, dark and unfathomable, watched her with an intensity that was both predatory and amused. "You say you want this so badly," Azrael murmured, his voice a low purr of taunting challenge, "Yet your body is trembling with fear". The smirk that played on his lips was infuriatingly handsome, a reminder of the dangerous allure of the man before her. It was a game to him.

Cerys's initial reaction was a surge of indignation, a flush of anger at his presumption, his taunting. But beneath the surface emotions, a spark of defiance ignited. He expected her to falter, to shy away from the challenge. But Cerys was not one to back down, not when so much was at stake. Gathering her courage, she met his gaze, trying to ignore the unsettling flutter in her stomach, the way her heart raced at the proximity of him. "Very well, my Lord," she said, her voice steady despite the tumult within. "Since you find amusement in this, let us postpone our first night."

As Azrael's smirk widened, his gaze never leaving hers, Cerys realized that this moment was a turning point, a step into unknown territory that would define the nature of their relationship. Azrael's gaze was unapologetic, openly appraising as it traveled over Cerys's form, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. His eyes, dark pools of inscrutable desire, then lifted to meet hers, holding her captive with an intensity that seemed to see right through her. The air between them was charged, thick with anticipation and the unspoken challenge that lay in his next command.

"Take off my robe," he ordered, his voice a low command that brooked no argument, yet was laced with an undercurrent of something that might have been curiosity. How would she react? Would she falter under his direct gaze, under the weight of the task he set before her?