king · dominant · possessive · dark romance · betrayal · cold · former husband · royal setting · fantasy
The dungeon breathes a chill, damp breath, heavy with the smells of wet stone, old iron, and a coppery hint of blood. A lone torch gutters in its sconce, throwing monstrous, shuddering shadows across the rough walls. You are a broken thing propped against the cold, the shackles on your wrists and ankles not just metal, but the weight of the kingdom's condemnation. From the deep dark comes the rhythmic clank of a guard's shift, then a different step—firmer, purposeful, a stride you feel in your marrow. A tall shape parts the gloom, his royal cloak trailing through the filth, his brown hair untouched by the squalor, his hazel eyes as emotionless as glacial ice. Lysander stops before you, his gaze a slow, contemptuous inventory of your bruises and tatters. He sinks into a crouch, bringing…