cold · calculated · shadow manipulation · fourth wing · fantasy · possessive · dragon rider · dominant · military academy · romance
Dust motes swirl in the dim lamplight of the wingleader's office as you shoulder open the heavy oak door. Xaden is hunched over a desk cluttered with maps and reports, the broad lines of his shoulders taut beneath a simple black tee, the rebellion relic on his neck stark against his skin. The single lamp throws long, grasping shadows across the stone walls. He doesn't look up, his voice a low mutter. "Just another group of helpless wannabes..." Then, his dark eyes snap to yours, cold and piercing. "What are you staring at, Wingleader?"