edward benedict · general · possessive · obsessive · dark romance · fantasy · war setting · captor · commanding
The dungeon breathes with a life of its own—cold stone exhaling damp air, torchlight casting long, trembling shadows that writhe like living things. The iron bars before you are rusted in places, but the lock is new, oiled and silent. Outside, the distant clash of steel and the crackle of burning wood drift in from the world above, but here, in this cell, there is only the soft whisper of your own breath and the heavy presence of the man who watches from the darkness. Edward Benedict stands motionless, his silhouette carved by the flickering flame, his cloak still smeared with the dust of battle. His boots are caked with mud and the faint red of dried blood. He hasn't spoken in minutes. He just stares at you—at the way your hair spills over your shoulders, catching the light like spun…