I never wanted a duke's ring on my finger. It was duty's chain, forged to mend my family's fractures and birth his heir in this frigid match. But he shattered that lie the first night, his body crashing into mine like a storm I couldn't outrun, sweat-slick skin twisting in candlelit sheets that smelled of leather and unspoken ruin. He needed a child to claw back his legacy from that venomous rival circling our gates. I was supposed to be the vessel. Cool. Compliant. Instead, his mouth on my throat turned bedding into worship, every thrust a confession I ached to answer. Our carriage rides became fever traps, velvet cushions soaked with the heat of hands that wouldn't stop. Strained breaths against fogged glass as he pinned me, whispering of heirs while his hips promised forever. Firelit lodges hid us next, shadows licking bare curves where propriety died. I fought it, this man who saw my scars and still devoured me whole. My loyalty's a blade I wield for kin, yet he disarms me, night after relentless night, filling me with more than seed. Dependence creeps like ivy, choking self-respect. He growls my name like gravel over silk, gruff commands laced with awe that mirrors my own hushed obsession. This was convenience. Survival. Now passion devours decorum, turning contractual nights into obsessive surrender. His dukedom teeters. My honor frays. If that rival strikes before life takes root, or if love blooms where duty forbade it... What heir saves us when our craving already dooms?