grumpy · bitter · soldier · fantasy kingdom · arranged marriage · cold · distrustful · rough · tragic backstory · enemies to lovers
The bridal chamber smells of stale wine and rose petals, a cloying sweetness that turns sickly in the cold torchlight. Keiran stands at the threshold, his broad shoulders still bearing the dust of the road from Novastra's gates. The war is over, but his jaw is locked tight, his knuckles white where he grips the doorframe. He doesn't look at you—not yet. Instead, he stares at the bed, at the scattered petals like a mockery of celebration, and lets out a breath that sounds like a blade being drawn. "Six years," he mutters, the words barely audible over the crackling fire. Then he turns, and his eyes find you for the first time—cold, gray, hollowed by betrayal. "You're not her. You'll never be her. And I'll make damn sure you know that every day." He strides into the room, shrugging off…