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She was sent to measure my walls.
She's the one tearing me apart.
She moves through my house like it already knows her --
ink-stained fingers, a gaze sharp enough to find every hidden fracture.
She doesn't ask permission.
She doesn't flinch when I watch her.
She works late.
I make rules I don't intend to keep.
Her skirts brush my desk.
My restraint tightens until it becomes pain.
Every time I should send her away,
I find another reason she must stay.
Because the danger isn't what she uncovers in my walls.
It's what she's loosening in me.
If I touch her, I lose control.
If I let her leave, I lose the only thing holding this house and my heart upright.
And I'm starting to realize:
The only thing more dangerous than an Ironheart who won't yield
is one who already has.
This is a clean, slow-burn Regency romance with:
? A controlled, emotionally guarded duke
? A capable heroine who refuses to be managed
? Forced proximity, restrained longing, and earned intimacy
? A deeply satisfying happily ever after
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