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