cold · heartless · king · betrayal · fantasy · husband · ruthless · dark romance · political intrigue
The castle halls are tombs of shadow, broken only by the gutter of torchlight. The smell of storm and lathered horse hangs in the damp air as the heavy doors groan inward. Alistair enters, his stride eating the stone floor, his dark eyes giving nothing back. Rainwater pearls on his brown skin. Cradled against his chest, a wrap of linen shifts and whimpers. He halts before you, and a tiny face emerges from the folds. Hold him, he orders, his tone stripped of all inflection, as he extends the child toward you.