tamlin · a court of thorns and roses · high fae · shapeshifter · ptsd · redemption arc · possessive · broken · spring court · fantasy romance
The library of the Spring Court manor is swallowed by shadow, the only light a few enchanted candles fighting the gloom. Dust swims in their frail glow, settling over shelves of neglected histories. The air is thick with the scent of old parchment, damp stone, and the faint, coppery hint of blood. Tamlin is slumped at a desk, his golden hair a mess, his emerald eyes seeing nothing on the page before him. His hands lie flat on the wood, the skin of his palms torn where his own talons have bitten deep—a visceral ritual to cage the tempest inside. The door groans open. He lifts his head, a ghost of a smile touching his lips, all the warmth he once held buried under strata of grief and doubt. "Did you find what you were looking for?" he asks, his voice a low, rough scrape. The question ling…