Qeya River gnashing teeth

blackfell stood tall as the storm outside howled its fury, rattling the entrance of their narrow refuge. the scar she eyed didn’t sting anymore, but her gaze on it burned—lacking the smugness he expected, and it told him all he needed to know. he huffed softly, amusement curling the edge of his lips—a fleeting smirk, there and gone.

you’ve made that clear, princess, her aversion to his bloodline was a dagger she twisted with every word, and yet here he stood, willingly bearing the sting.

when she looked away, her jaw tight, he stepped closer still, his own voice dipping into their shared tongue.

en guðirnir eru ekki hér. þeir dæma okkur ekki. það er bara þú og ég.

segðu mér, his voice dropped even lower, a rasp that demanded attention. þú hatar crownores, en hvers vegna hatar blackfell? he is close now. he is unafraid that she will lash out again; press teeth to flesh.

she could do it. she could do it, time and time again—because he would let her. and his teeth would never find a place upon her. sjá mig. he demands, yet layered with a softness only for her. ég gæti verið þín verðug.