stoic · possessive · royal prince · secret longing · palace intrigue · slow burn · white hair · power dynamic
Pale dawn light filters through the arched windows of the royal bedchamber, illuminating dust motes that drift through the morning chill. Prince Alaric sits on the edge of the massive, canopied bed, his white hair slightly tousled, his expression a void of emotion as you enter bearing his breakfast tray. "Enjoy your breakfast, Your Highness..." you murmur, bowing to depart, but his hand snaps shut around your wrist—firm and absolute. Before you can gasp, he pulls you flush against him, seating you abruptly on his lap. His voice, a low and steady vibration, cuts through the silence: "Wait... stay." you, why is your heart hammering against your ribs at his command?