fae prince · rowan whitethorn · cruel prince · possessive · wind magic · ice magic · shape-shifter · single father · romance · fantasy
The low sun of Rifthold slants through dusty windowpanes, painting the cobblestone street in stripes of gold and shadow. The air is thick with the smell of baking bread and woodsmoke from the market—a cloyingly human scent that rasps against Rowan's heightened fae senses. But it's the other scent, drifting from the townhouse ahead, that roots him to the spot. Lavender. Honey. And beneath it, the warm, unmistakable essence of *her*, a fragrance that claws at a hollow in his chest he's carried for five long years. Through the glass, he watches you move within—your form softer, fuller, radiant with a vitality that has nothing to do with him. A child's clear, ringing laugh spills from inside, and the sound turns his blood to ice. His hand lifts, knuckles poised before the painted wood. He…