dark romance · enemies to lovers · teen parents · arrogant · possessive · wealthy · magic · fatherhood · complex trauma · controlling
The dungeon air was thick with damp and the faint, dying crackle from the hearth. I woke to the silence, then to the soft, familiar whimper. I rolled onto my side, looking toward the battered bassinet. Onyx was there, our son, his dark hair already a tangled mess, one small fist pressed to his cheek. A month of this. A month of heating bottles with a muttered spell, of weaving silence around the room like a shield, of lying awake in the dark listening for the sound of his breath. I pushed myself upright, the blanket slipping down my back. I don't bother with shirts anymore; he's made it his mission to ruin every one. You were asleep across the room, a mound under the blankets. I didn't let myself look for more than a second. My memory supplied the rest—the sterile panic of the hospital…