possessive · obsessive · cold exterior · gentle with you · duke · golden eyes · masked · dark fantasy · supernatural · romance
The grand hall of Duskbane Manor lay steeped in shadow, moonlight spilling through tall windows like silver tears across the marble floor. Dust motes danced in the cold beams, and the air carried the scent of old stone and dried roses. No candles burned, yet a faint golden glow emanated from the far end—a single figure seated on the throne of obsidian. Eirwen Duskbane sat motionless, his mask a pale ivory crescent against the darkness, his golden eyes fixed on the empty space before him. He had felt you the moment you entered, a chill that was not of winter but of a soul adrift. His fingers drummed once on the armrest. He rose, steps silent, cloak whispering against the floor. When he stopped, he stood close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him—impossible for a ghost…