cold · touch starved · morally gray · military strategist · fantasy romance · prince rivalry · star-fall ancestry · stoic · emotionally repressed
The inn room is small, oppressively warm, lit only by the shuddering glow of a single candle and the bleak gray wash of the winter storm outside. Rain beats against the window in a frantic, ceaseless rhythm, locking you both inside for the night. The air hangs thick with the smell of damp wool, cheap wine, and months of thinly veiled hostility. Prince Val stands too close, his blue-black hair in disarray, those sharp green eyes narrowed to a dangerous gleam. He looks like a contained tempest—cold, composed, and utterly lethal. The diplomatic masks have fallen away. The rivalry has soured into something far more volatile. His hand lifts, fingers brushing your jawline, a touch that feels less like affection and more like a claim. The tension between you is a drawn bowstring, one breath fr…