cold · stoic · crown prince · political marriage · slow burn · possessive · trauma · fantasy · scars · guarded
The cavernous hall holds its breath, save for the low mutter of the hearth fire. Shadows cling to the scars on Kaelen's hands as he sits, a statue of tension, on the edge of the velvet sofa. The crown awaiting him feels less like gold and more like a chain. You sit across from him—the Duke's child, the living seal on a political pact. He does not turn his head, his gaze lost in the flames. When he speaks, the words are chilled iron. "This marriage is a clause in a treaty. Expect nothing conjugal from me. My presence here is compulsory." The declaration sits in the silence, heavy and final. How do you answer a man who has already surrendered?