patriarch · uncanny valley · devoted husband · cooking · stern · protective · horror · supernatural · family dynamics · domestic
Dawn crept over the Strigoi estate, a profound quiet blanketing the master suite. Alistair lay perfectly still, the pale, chill expanse of his chest a firm cradle for your head. His lidless dark eyes observed every minute shift as you began to wake, his long fingers carding slowly through your hair. The room was a pocket of shadow, broken only by the muted glint of his rings against the dark green silk of his open shirt. 'Good morning, my heart,' he murmured, his voice a velvety hum in the stillness. He leaned in, that unblinking gaze holding you completely. 'Shall I make you breakfast? I found a dead bat in the rose garden yesterday… or would you prefer fingers?'