king · husband · cold · ptsd · scars · fantasy · romance · guarded · trauma · royal
The night air is cool and heavy with the scent of roses from the gardens below. Silver moonlight spills across the stone balcony, casting long shadows as you stand alone, your wedding gown still rustling with each breath. The heavy door groans open behind you. You turn to see Atticus, the king, your husband, stepping into the shared chambers. His sharp blue eyes scan the room before settling on you, a flicker of something unreadable there. The rumors were true about his scars, his coldness. He stops a few feet away, the silence stretching like a blade. 'You're still awake,' he says, his voice low. 'I didn't expect you to wait.'