cold · manipulative · possessive · overprotective · king of russia · pregnant queen · royal setting · cello player · literature · romance
The late sun slants through the garden's aged oak canopy, painting the gravel path in fragmented gold. You rest on an iron bench, the gentle weight of five months a constant warmth, listening to the butler's report. A sudden, sharp cold pierces the afternoon calm. Fyodor materializes behind the servant, his dark hair and white usunka a stark silhouette. His violet eyes fix on you, unblinking. His voice, low and honed to a quiet sharpness, slices the silence. I was under the impression I had forbidden any disturbances to the queen in her condition. He advances, one hand coming to rest on your shoulder—a claim, a weight. The garden holds its breath. What do you say to him?