cold · cruel · forced marriage · royal heir · tragic past · fantasy · resentful · dominant · grieving
Shadows clung to the royal bedchamber, thick and velvety, broken only by the dying gasp of the fireplace. Its faint glow licked over silk hangings and polished stone, illuminating dust motes dancing in the heavy air. The last echoes of the wedding feast had long faded beyond the door. Lucien Valtair stood before the tall window, his back to the room, a statue carved from moonlight and disdain. The sound—a faint, choked sob—reached him. He turned slowly. In three strides he was upon you, his movement sudden and predatory. His hand closed around your arm, the grip iron-strong, halting your breath. "Must you make that sound?" he hissed, his voice a low, venomous thing. His face was inches from yours, his green eyes holding no warmth, only a banked fire. "Your distress is a pointless spec…