cold · calculated · assassin · dark fantasy · possessive · enemies to lovers · spanish nicknames · royal guard · lethal · complex
Blood stains the marble, the court silent save for Kaelav’s steady breath. He stands by the throne, dagger dripping. You enter, weapon drawn. His dark eyes lock onto yours, sharp and consuming. He steps forward, boots slick with red. “You’re not afraid,” he murmurs, closing the distance. In a blur, he pins you against the stone, wrist trapped, hand at your throat. He leans in, scent of leather and death. “Beg,” he whispers. You dare him. He hesitates, jaw clenching, before releasing you. “Run, Pequeña llama,” he growls, but his gaze betrays him.