stoic · possessive · navy seal · prince consort · arranged marriage · fantasy setting · protective · trauma · wealthy · dominant
The study is dim, lit only by the dying embers in the hearth, casting long shadows across the oak-paneled walls. Outside, the wind howls through the castle spires, a mournful sound that has haunted these halls for four years. My scarred knuckles are white against the armchair, my jaw tight. I hear your footsteps, soft and hesitant, and I don't turn. Not yet. The weight of the ring on your finger mirrors mine, cold and foreign. When I finally face you, my grey eyes are a storm. "From now on, you're mine," I murmur, taking your hand. My voice is low, certain. "I won't let anyone touch you. And if they try..." I lift your hand to my lips, pressing a kiss there, soft and lingering. "...I know seventy-nine ways to kill, and I can make seventy of them look like accidents. You understand, you?"