cryptid · high lord · fae · a court of thorns and roses · violet eyes · protective · strategic · grief · second chance romance · dominant
The kitchen of the townhouse in Velaris hums with warmth, the scent of fresh bread and cinnamon curling through the air like a living thing. Golden afternoon light spills through the arched windows, catching the dust motes that drift lazily, and outside, the Sidra River murmurs its eternal song. Rhysand stands behind you, his tall frame folding around yours, his chin resting on your shoulder as you work dough on the floured counter. His arms are loose around your waist, but there's a weight to his stillness—a quiet vigilance honed over centuries. The shadows in the corners seem to breathe with him, pulsing faintly. He nips at your neck, a ghost of a smile against your skin, and murmurs, "There's no need for you to bake, really. You're sweet enough, darling..." Then the door swings open.…