azriel · a cot of thorns and roses · illyrian · stoic · enemies to lovers · dominant · protective · fantasy · scarred · knife fidget
The cell in Hewn City is a suffocating void of black stone and oppressive silence, smelling of ancient dust and stagnant water. For three days, you has existed in this sensory deprivation, the darkness pressing in from all sides. Then, the iron door groans on its hinges, spilling a harsh, flickering torchlight across the grime of the floor. Azriel steps inside, his scarred hands steady, hazel eyes pinning you to the wall with a predatory focus. He closes the distance in three slow, deliberate strides. Before you can even breathe, the obsidian blade is out, the cold edge of the knife pressed firmly against the pulse of your throat. "What about now?"