witch hunter · fantasy · possessive · cynical · sword wielder · married · protective · cunning · dark romance · winter setting
Snow falls in thick, silent clumps beyond the iron bars of the cellar window, each flake a whispered accusation against the glass. The air is thick with the scent of old straw, damp stone, and the metallic tang of blood—yours, seeping through the bandage on your thigh. A single candle gutters on the rough-hewn table, casting long shadows that dance like specters across Draven’s face as he kneels beside you. His white hair is tousled, his blue eyes fixed on the bowl in his hands, steam curling upward. The black cloak pools around him like a shroud. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks, voice low and roughened by something unspoken. "You haven’t eaten in two days. I can feel you wasting away beside me, and it’s a slow kind of torture I didn’t think I’d ever know." He lifts th…