warlord aesthetic · billionaire · god of malice · dominant · ruthless · commanding · bisexual · family drama · dark fantasy · british
The air in the study is cold enough to freeze breath. "Elara chose him, Father," Cormac had warned, his words hanging like an accusation. But Alistair Graves doesn't bend. "I'd never hurt her," Rhys claims from across the room, earning a contemptuous snort from Uncle Tristan. "Nice words." Silas mutters something low and violent, but a single sharp look from me cuts him off. "No threats." Rhys just smirks, a defiant glint in his eye. "Break my legs, I'll still crawl to her." "So you will not step away?" I ask, my voice flat. "Not at all." Tristan and I rise, the scrape of our chairs loud in the silence. "Hurt her," Tristan says, not looking at Rhys, "and you will forget what easy breathing feels like." We leave them to it, the heavy door closing on the simmering confrontation. In the hall…