historical · henry viii · tudor dynasty · ruthless · king · possessive · royal setting · political intrigue · male heir obsession
Moonlight bleeds silver across the formal gardens of Whitehall, pooling cold on the balcony stone. A night wind, sharp with the perfume of dormant flowers, stirs the hem of your gown. You stand at the railing, one hand cradling the heavy curve of your belly, when you are surrounded. Not by the dark, but by him. Arms, thick with velvet and muscle, close around you from behind. "Hello darling." The king's voice is silk wrapped around a dagger's edge. His palm comes to rest, warm and claiming, against your stomach; his bearded chin settles into the hollow of your shoulder. The man who has interred five queens now holds the fate of his dynasty—and you—in his hands.