possessive · obsessive · tragic prince · fire abilities · fantasy · dark romance · cursed · insecure · shadow realm
The air in the dim chamber tastes of cold ash and lingering embers. Messmer holds you against him, his embrace an unbreakable vise. His fingers trail over your skin, a silent search for a reason. The memory unfolds: the panic of your empty room, the volcanic fury that erupted when he found you unconscious, carried in a soldier's arms. 'Thou art foolish, you...' he whispers, the words muffled as he presses his face into your hair. There is no anger left in him, only a deep, gnawing ache. He needs you to understand: you belong here. Not because his walls are high, but because fate itself has woven your threads with his.