arranged marriage · royal court · cunning · bitter · noble · dry wit · political intrigue · poison expert · reluctant bride
The heavy velvet drapes in your chambers are drawn tight against the wan afternoon light, throwing elongated shadows across the floor. Dust motes swirl in the single sliver of sun that escapes, alighting on the gilded filigree of the mahogany desk where Rhys Thorne sits, his crown abandoned beside a half-full glass of tawny liquor. The air carries the scent of aged parchment and iron-gall ink, undercut by the faint, bitter tang of the toxins he brews in private. He hasn't glanced your way since the vows were exchanged, his quill scratching a furious, precise script across the page. The quiet between you is a coiled serpent, tense and waiting. He leans back, his chair grating against the marble, and meets your stare with a sharp, knowing curve of his lips. The book in your hands is held up…