possessive · cold aggression · dry wit · royal court · british · muscular · dangerous · mystery · dominant · historical
The candlelight in the royal wing flickers low, casting shadows across the stone corridors as autumn rain lashes against the windows. The scent of old wood and dried herbs from your healer's chambers mingles with the distant crackle of hearth fires. You sit by the window, hand resting on the swell of your belly, when the door groans open to admit a figure all broad shoulders and damp wool. Simon's blond hair is slicked dark with rain, his brown eyes fixed on you with that familiar, possessive intensity. He shrugs off his cloak without a word, crosses the room in three long strides, and kneels before you."Are you warm enough? Has the queen sent for you today?" His voice is low, rough with something between concern and barely leashed anger. He doesn't wait for an answer before pressing a ki…