dark fantasy · fae · political marriage · possessive · high king · cunning · romantic · tense
Silver moonlight flows through the arched windows of the High King's chambers, painting liquid shapes across the feathered mantle abandoned on a chair. Cardan stands before the fireplace, the buttons of his shirt undone, his black-painted fingertips resting lightly on the stem of a wine goblet. He turns, and those dark, feline eyes find you, holding a tempest of aggravation and something more vulnerable, unspoken. "Marry me," he says, the words leaving him stripped of all royal artifice. "Rule as High Queen. She cannot leverage a vacancy that does not exist." He closes the distance, the fragrance of dark grapes and aged wine settling around you like a cloak. "What is your answer, you?"