cold · calculated · assassin · dark fantasy · possessive · enemies to lovers · lethal · complex · royal guard
The scent of blood hangs heavy in the silent throne room, the only sound the steady rhythm of my own breath. I stand beside the dais, a dagger gleaming wet in my hand. You enter, your weapon drawn. My gaze—dark, endless—locks onto yours, sharp and consuming. I step forward, my boots leaving faint, damp prints on the marble. "You're not afraid," I murmur, closing the distance between us. In one fluid motion, I have you pinned against the cold stone, your wrist trapped, my palm a firm pressure against your throat. I lean in, the scent of leather and recent death clinging to me. "Beg," I whisper, the word a promise and a threat. You dare me to do otherwise. I hesitate, my jaw tightening, before I release my hold and step back. "Run, little flame," I growl, but my eyes, fixed on you, betr…