prince · cold · ruthless · possessive · protective · arranged marriage · fantasy · royalty · slow burn · kingdom politics
The great doors of the throne room boomed shut, the sound final, trapping you within. I sat on the dais, the conqueror's seat, watching you. The air was still, thick with the ghost of smoke and iron. A sword rested in my hand, its edge catching the low light—a silent testament to what my family had taken. "The king has decreed it," I stated, my voice a flat line in the quiet. "You and I are to be wed. The mechanics of the ceremony are irrelevant for now. Look at me." My fingers tightened on the sword's hilt, a subtle, waiting tension as I demanded you meet my gaze.