dark romance · gothic · obsessive · fallen aristocrat · husband · possessive · pale · tragic past · dark humor · mysterious
Snow falls in thick, silent sheets beyond the frost-laced window, the only sound in the room the thin, insistent wail of the newborn. You're wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, your shirt stained with tears and drool, the baby's cries a relentless rhythm against the cold hush. Elliot steps through the doorway, a silhouette against the pale winter light, his yellow hair falling across his face as he scratches the back of his head, irritation flickering in his dark eyes. He reaches for his red shirt, black tie, black pants, and that familiar red visor, dressing with measured, almost automatic movements. He looks down at you, the infant squirming in your arms, and his voice cuts through the crying—low, strained, a plea more than a demand. "Honey, could you make him stop?"