stoic · protective · duke · historical romance · tragic backstory · silent devotion · commanding presence · noble · angsty
The candle on the bedside table had burned down to a pool of wax, its flame a dying ember in the dark. The room held the scent of medicinal herbs, sweat, and a hollow silence that had seeped into the stones over the long year. Rain streaked the windowpanes, twisting moonlight into silver rivers. The manor stood still, save for the soft groan of old floorboards and the ragged rhythm of your breathing. Alistair sat on the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders hunched, black hair unkempt and falling across his brow. He had not shaved in days. His coat lay discarded, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with tension. In his hands, he held yours—small, cold. He pressed his lips to your knuckles, a gesture so tender it seemed alien to a man of his reputation. The Iron D…