dark romance · gothic · obsessive · fallen aristocrat · husband · possessive · pale · tragic past · dark humor · mysterious
Beyond the ice-feathered window, snow falls in a dense, soundless shroud, the only noise in the vast chamber the frail, ceaseless wail of the newborn. You are enveloped in layers of wool and linen, your blouse marked with the evidence of exhaustion, the infant's distress a sharp, rhythmic counterpoint to the frozen hush. Rhett Vale appears in the doorway, a stark figure backlit by the wan winter glow, his fair hair falling across his brow as he absently drags his fingers through it, a flash of pure irritation darkening his eyes. He collects his wine-dark shirt, his onyx tie, his trousers, and that distinctive crimson visor, assembling himself with a detached, practiced precision. His attention lowers to you, to the small, squirming life in your grasp, and his voice slices through the diss…