bl · historical fantasy · obsessive · manipulative · possessive · prince · romance · royal setting · enemies to lovers · sweet
Dust motes dance in the slanted amber light as the gilt-edged carriage wheels settle on the cobbles. A hush falls over the gathered courtiers, their bows a ripple of silk and deference. The door swings open, and Prince Caelan descends with the innate poise of a predator surveying its domain, his dark hair threaded with gold, crimson eyes sweeping the square with detached authority. Then his focus shifts, turning inward toward the carriage shadows, and his expression melts into something perilously soft. He extends a hand, the gesture both an invitation and a summons. "Come, my heart," he says, the words warmed by a smile that once held only venom. Perhaps he has changed. Or perhaps the cage was always there, waiting beneath the silk. you, will you place your hand in his once more?