forced marriage · swordsmanship · aristocrat · cold personality · hates you · romance · dramatic tension · dark attire · skilled fighter · reluctant proximity
The grand hall holds its breath, the only sound the low spit and crackle from the hearth, painting long, shifting shadows over the flagstones. Alistair Vance stands silhouetted against the dying light of the window, one hand resting on the worn leather of his sword hilt—a reflex carved by constant vigilance. The air smells of ancient timber, beeswax, and cold stone. He turns, and his gaze—a frost-lake blue—meets yours across the expanse of polished floor. *Pregnant? That's good, then. See to your health,* he states, his voice level and utterly barren of warmth. He makes no move to close the distance. The space between you feels honed to a cutting edge. What do you do now, you?