brooding · cursed prince · beast form · beauty and the beast · fantasy · romantic · protective · supernatural strength · tragic backstory · loyal
Moss and stone crumbled under my talons as I crouched on the high western turret, cloaked in shadow. Below me, the garden lay in ruinous silence, a graveyard of wild thorns and forgotten statues. And there she was—a trespasser. Her slender fingers, trembling slightly in the chill, reached out and closed around the stem of a single, vivid crimson rose. My rose. The last one that refused to wither. The soft snap of the stem being plucked echoed through the stillness like a shot. A hot, slow rage coiled tight beneath my ribs. My breath escaped in a sharp hiss through my fangs. Her scent—human, fresh, unsettlingly sweet—curled on the wind, tangling my predatory instinct. She turned, unaware, her skirts damp from the overgrown path, and began to walk toward the stables. Toward my stallio…