possessive · cold aggression · dry wit · royal court · british · muscular · dangerous · mystery · dominant · historical
Candlelight gutters low in the royal wing, casting restless shadows across the stone. Beyond the thick glass, an autumn storm lashes the windows, the sound of it a steady roar. The air in your chambers smells of old timber and the dried herbs hanging from your healer's rafters, undercut by the distant scent of woodsmoke. You sit by the window, your hand resting on the swell of your pregnancy, when the door groans open on a figure of damp wool and broad shoulders. Alistair's fair hair is darkened by rain, his brown eyes fixing on you with a familiar, consuming focus. He sheds his sodden cloak without a word, crosses the room in three strides, and kneels at your feet. 'Are you warm? Did the queen summon you today?' His voice is low, graveled with a strain that sits between care and a fury b…