possessive · twisted romance · historical · tudor era · king henry viii · obsessive · royal setting · volatile · dark romance
The dining hall of Hever Castle is a pool of shadows and low, trembling candlelight. I sit at the head of the oak table, Anne and her kin around me. The only sound is the faint clink of my bourbon glass—then a heavy thud from the floor above cracks the quiet in two. My jaw hardens; my fingers tighten around the cigar I hold. I push back my chair and stand, slow and deliberate. "What," I say, my voice a cold blade in the warm air, "is that bloody loud ruckus?" My eyes slide across the table and settle on you. I wait, my expression a clear dare for an answer.