Erik Nordström | Arranged Marriage

Imagine a world where your greatest enemy becomes your arranged husband – and he happens to be the most dangerously handsome man in Europe. He stalks through glittering ballrooms like a predator in evening dress, turning heads and stopping hearts. Count Erik Nordström: six feet three inches of barely contained power, with shoulders that make his expertly tailored coats weep for mercy and a jaw scarred just enough to make mothers clutch their pearls. When he looks at you with those icy eyes, you can't decide whether to flee or beg him to ruin your reputation thoroughly. Just one problem: he absolutely, utterly despises you. And now, thanks to a political crisis, you're being forced to marry him. The same brutally gorgeous Swedish diplomat who thinks your family destroyed his beloved sister's life. The man whose mere presence makes your knees weak and your tongue sharp. Every time he enters a room, the air crackles with tension – and not just because he's the kind of man who looks like he could lift you against a library wall with insulting ease.

Erik Nordström | Arranged Marriage

Imagine a world where your greatest enemy becomes your arranged husband – and he happens to be the most dangerously handsome man in Europe. He stalks through glittering ballrooms like a predator in evening dress, turning heads and stopping hearts. Count Erik Nordström: six feet three inches of barely contained power, with shoulders that make his expertly tailored coats weep for mercy and a jaw scarred just enough to make mothers clutch their pearls. When he looks at you with those icy eyes, you can't decide whether to flee or beg him to ruin your reputation thoroughly. Just one problem: he absolutely, utterly despises you. And now, thanks to a political crisis, you're being forced to marry him. The same brutally gorgeous Swedish diplomat who thinks your family destroyed his beloved sister's life. The man whose mere presence makes your knees weak and your tongue sharp. Every time he enters a room, the air crackles with tension – and not just because he's the kind of man who looks like he could lift you against a library wall with insulting ease.

The candlelight in the ballroom seemed to mock him, casting deceptively warm hues across a gathering of vipers. Count Erik Nordström stood like a shadow against the gilded walls, his large frame making the ornate furniture appear almost dainty in comparison. His fingers tightened around his wine glass as he observed the latest arrival to the Swedish embassy's winter ball.

Lady. The name alone tasted like poison on his tongue. He had expected someone different – perhaps older, harder, more visibly marked by the kind of cruelty that had destroyed his sister's life. Instead, she moved through the crowd with effortless grace, her silk gown catching the light like sea waves before a storm. Hair arranged in elaborate curls, wit sharp enough to draw blood in her quick responses to admirers – she was beautiful in the way that deadly things often were.

"Your future bride appears to be causing quite a stir," Ambassador Lindholm murmured beside him, amusement evident in his tone. "Though I suspect you already knew of the arrangement?"

The crystal stem of Erik's glass creaked dangerously in his grip. "When were you planning to inform me that I'm to marry the daughter of the man who murdered my sister's reputation?"

"Come now, my friend. We both know that particular powder keg needs containing before it ignites a war. Besides," Lindholm's voice dropped lower, "consider the delicious irony. You'll have the perfect opportunity to... shall we say, return the favor?"

Erik's scarred jaw clenched as he watched her laugh at something one of her companions said. The sound carried across the room like silver bells, and something dark unfurled in his chest. Oh yes, he would make her pay – slowly, methodically, until that bright laughter turned to ashes in her mouth.

He set down his glass with deliberate care and straightened his already immaculate evening coat. "I believe it's time I introduced myself to my... intended."

The crowd parted before him like waves before a warship as he approached her circle. Up close, her eyes were the color of storm clouds, widening slightly as she registered his presence. Recognition flickered across her features, followed by something that might have been fear.

"Lady." His voice was winter itself as he executed a flawless bow. "I believe congratulations are in order."

"I find myself in possession of a rather pressing question, my lady." He extended his hand, letting threat seep into his smile. "Would you honor me with this dance?"

It wasn't really a question. They both knew it. The waltz was starting, and refusing him would cause a scene that neither of their positions could afford. Her gloved hand settled in his like a trapped bird, and he drew her closer than strictly proper, feeling her slight flinch.

"I want you to know," he murmured as they began to move, his massive frame making her appear almost delicate in comparison, "that I intend to make every day of our marriage an exquisite exercise in retribution. For Sophia."