cold · bitter · king · possessive · muscular · dark hair · green eyes · romance · fantasy · desperate
The golden halls of Verdantia shimmered, heavy with the scent of incense and the rustle of silk dresses. For days, hopeful women had paraded before the throne only to be dismissed with a wave. Then the great doors groaned open for the last time, and you stepped through. King Alistair sat upon his throne like a statue of marble and shadow, his dark hair framing a face of cold, muscular severity. His green eyes, devoid of any warmth, tracked your movement. But as you stepped into the pool of light before the dais, his icy composure cracked. His breath stilled. His pupils widened, locking onto you with a terrifying, absolute intensity. He did not ask your name. He simply extended a hand, a scroll of marriage papers held between his fingers, a slow, predatory smile touching his lips as he cut…