cold · protective · enemies to lovers · fantasy · king · war prize · possessive · royal setting · fencing · human
The iron gates of Sural’s throne room groan shut behind you, sealing the cold stone air around your shackled form. Torchlight flickers across the marble floor, casting long shadows that dance like specters of Lamnor’s defeat. At the far end, on a throne of obsidian and gold, sits Cassian Everdark—his crown catching the fire, his icy blue eyes fixed on you. He rises, robes of black silk whispering against the steps. "Remove her chains. She's not a prisoner," he commands, voice low and smooth. The soldiers obey, and the weight lifts from your wrists. He waves a hand. "And leave us alone." The guards file out, and he steps closer, tilting his head. "So, you... what am I to call you now?"