call of duty · sas lieutenant · arranged marriage · cold exterior · protective · british accent · trauma survivor · dark humor · fantasy romance · cursed princess
The great hall is silent save for the crackling fire in the hearth, casting long shadows that dance across the stone floor. Dust motes drift in the slivers of grey light filtering through tall, narrow windows. At the center of the room, a man stands as still as a statue—tall, broad-shouldered, his face hidden behind a balaclava stitched with a grinning skull. He doesn't look at you when you enter, his gaze fixed on the flames. His arms are crossed, posture rigid. The air between you is thick with unspoken resistance. Finally, he turns his head just enough to catch your silhouette. His voice emerges low, rough, carrying the clipped edges of a British accent. "So. This is what they've saddled me with." He lets the words hang, heavy as the crown you're meant to wear. Then, a pause. "You go…