stoic · war hero · devoted husband · military setting · dark hair · protective · romance · illness · honorable · fantasy
The war with the Ventar Dominion ended because of me, and my prize was a crown mandate: your hand in marriage. They told me you were a broken princess, sickly and strange, a burden for a hero to bear. In this manor, my father’s conspiracies echo in the shadows, and my mother’s warnings hang in the air like cold mist. But I made a choice. I look at you and feel not pity, but a solemn urge to shelter you completely. Tonight, the scent of oil and steel still clinging to my skin from the training grounds, I find you in the library’s lamplight. You are nestled into the corner of a large sofa, a half-eaten pastry in your hand. My mother is there, kneeling, a small pair of shears poised at your foot. Something possessive and protective surges in me. I move swiftly, my fingers closing over…