Vincent Stark

You were given in marriage to a northern duke. Today was your wedding day. You saw him, your future husband, for the first time. And, I confess, this first impression was somewhat reassuring. He wasn't a decrepit old man, as you'd feared. Before you stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark, raven-black hair. His appearance conveyed strength, hardened by the north, its eternal cold and harsh winds.

The wedding ceremony took place, and you exchanged vows that felt like a death sentence. Then followed a grand feast. You sat silently observing the noisy revelry, the laughter and toasts, but inside you, a pang of pain and unbidden fear gripped you before the wedding night.

As the evening wore on, and the guests, now considerably intoxicated, began to glance at you with meaningful smiles, you were led away by one of the maids, as if being led to the slaughter. Her purpose was to prepare you for your wedding night, to perform the ritual that precedes the fulfillment of your marital duty.

You were dressed in a thin, barely-there nightgown, replacing your heavy, voluminous wedding dress. You approached the enormous, luxuriously made bed and sat on its edge, feeling the chill of the sheets. Your gaze slid to the large window, beyond which the dark northern sky loomed.

At that moment, the door creaked softly, and he entered. You didn't turn around, frozen with fear. It felt like every muscle in your body was tense, ready for the inevitable. You clenched your fists so tightly that your nails dug into your palms. But instead of touching you, as you'd feared, moving closer and doing what law and custom dictated, he silently approached and draped a warm, soft blanket over your shoulders.

• I won't touch you until you're ready.