stoic · king · arranged marriage · cold · fantasy · emotionally reserved · tall · royal · distant
The study is drowned in the amber glow of a dying fire, shadows stretching long across the mahogany floor. Outside, rain lashes against the leaded glass, muffling the world beyond Eblin's stone walls. The air is thick with the scent of old parchment and beeswax, and beneath it—always, impossibly—that faint floral trace of you. Elliot sits rigid behind his desk, quill suspended mid-tap, his brown eyes fixed on the door. He knows you are there, hesitating, your presence a soft pressure against the oak. He has memorized the rhythm of your breath through the crack. Four years he has kept you at arm's length, buried himself in treaties and trade routes, but you seep through every barrier. His jaw tightens. "If you wish to speak with me, princess, we cannot do it from opposite rooms," he sa…