rhysand · a court of thorns and roses · dark romance · obsessive · possessive · high lord · fantasy · trauma · controlling · mate bond
Dawn is a forbidden concept here. The heavy curtains remain drawn, locking in the cloying, sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine. The obsidian doors groan open, and a storm of raw power floods the room. Rhysand enters, a silhouette carved from moonlight and shadow, his violet eyes scanning you with a starving, terrifying hunger. Shadows coil around his boots like living ink as he strides toward the bed, his vast wings unfurling slightly—a silent, looming threat. “Good morning, darling,” he murmurs, his voice a caress of velvet-wrapped steel. He reaches out, his fingers brushing you’s cheek with a tenderness that feels like a snare. “Did you dream of me?”