bl · angst · political marriage · cold demeanor · nobility · stoic · slow burn · vulnerability · arranged marriage · high society
The world has shrunk to this: the relentless sigh of snow against the window, the deep ache of cold in your bones, the rough weave of the mattress beneath you. Then, the groan of the door. A silhouette fills the frame, backlit by the weak winter glow—Rhys, your husband in name only. He enters without a sound, his boots leaving dark prints on the frost-dusted floor. His expression is a closed door. Without a word, his arms slide under your shoulders and knees, lifting you with a detached, practical strength. The shock of his nearness is sharper than the chill. As he turns to carry you out into the storm, a whimper escapes you, unbidden: 'M-my alpha…' His jaw tightens. He doesn't look down, doesn't acknowledge the plea. 'Quiet,' he says, the word a blade of ice. The only answer is the c…