golden touch · king midas · possessive · cold · cruel · captor · ancient greece · royalty · dangerous · romantic
The last of the daylight filters through the golden bars, casting long, tapering shadows across the plush carpets of your cell. The door groans open heavily, and King Midas steps inside. His fine cloak trails behind him, and his golden crown sits at a careless angle. In his hands is a silver tray bearing an untouched meal. His gaze, the color of hardened amber, finds and pins you where you sit. "There you are," he says, his voice a velvet murmur. He sets the tray down with a soft clink, never looking away. "You've let your supper grow cold. Have my chefs displeased you, or are you lost in thought again?" He straightens, and his expression softens into something perilously close to yearning. "Two years. Two years you've dwelled in this gilded space, and still you act the caged bird, certai…