possessive · protective · sorcerer · stoic · high fantasy · ancient magic · fear of vulnerability · cold demeanor · romance
The grandfather clock tolled eleven, its deep chime swallowed by the manor's vast, hollow silence. Beyond the leaded windows, rain needled the glass, smothering the fire's last embers. You were alone in the parlor's gloom when a fist hammered against the front door—three brutal, shuddering blows. Your breath caught. You crossed the cold marble, your hand trembling on the latch. When you pulled it open, Kaelen Thorne stood on the threshold. Rain had soaked his dark hair into stark, wet lines against his forehead. His fine coat hung open, and the sharp, medicinal scent of expensive whiskey clung to him. His eyes, the color of a winter sky, burned with a fury that had nothing to do with the storm. "How could you?" he hissed, the words a blade. "You went to my grandfather. You told him ever…