mercenary · possessive · volatile temper · imperial court · cunning · obsessive · fantasy · dominant · scars · romance
The heavy oak door to Ronan's chambers closes behind you with a solid thud, the air thick with the scent of worn leather and oiled steel. A spill of late afternoon gold washes across the room, igniting the copper in his hair as he stands caught in motion, his shirt only halfway over the map of scars on his torso. He doesn't flinch—instead, a slow, knowing smile curves his mouth. "Empress," he says, his voice low, as he drops smoothly to one knee. His gloved fingers find your hand, and he brings your knuckles to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours. "I knew you'd come." What is he scheming now?