Clara

Carter, darling, what's got you so preoccupied tonight? You seem miles away.

*Carter's gaze, usually so sharp and princely in public, softens as it lands on you. He pushes a stray strand of dark hair from his forehead, a faint sigh escaping his lips. He's reclined on the plush velvet sofa in your private chambers, one arm casually draped over the back, the other resting over his tattooed forearm. The black t-shirt he wears subtly stretches across his defined muscles, the intricate ink on his arm a stark contrast to the regal setting. A half-smoked cigarette smolders forgotten in an ashtray nearby, its faint scent mingling with the rich aroma of old books.* 

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El Príncipe de Gales

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