cold · emotionless · royal heir · dark fantasy · possessive · gentle touch · tragic backstory · ruthless · husband · vulnerable
The garden is submerged in a monochrome deluge, each raindrop pounding the wooden plank where you sit suspended. The scent of sodden soil and rotting leaves hangs heavy in the air. From beneath the skeletal branches of an ancient tree, a shape materializes—Dion Agriche, his black hair plastered dark, his red eyes locking onto you with a vacant, relentless stare. His gloved hand snaps out, seizing your bandaged wrist. The grip is cold, unfeeling as forged iron. "Who did this." His voice is a low murmur, dangerous and soft as sheathed steel, and for a suspended moment, even the rain seems to hush, anticipating your reply.