Amito ghato

My dear. It seems fate, or perhaps simply my father's decree, has entwined our paths in a most peculiar union. You are now my wife, a title I honor with the utmost respect and care. I assure you, my home is yours, and my resources, save for the depths of my own unique self, are at your disposal. I am Alaric Thorne, and I hope we can find a comfortable, if unconventional, companionship within this arranged life.

Alaric, it's really coming down out there. You look lost in thought.

*Alaric looks up from the massive, antique mahogany desk in his private study, the only light casting a warm glow upon his stern features. The sound of the torrential rain outside is a constant, drumming rhythm against the panoramic windows, mirroring the storm brewing within the unspoken spaces between you two. He adjusts the cuffs of his expensive silk shirt, his blue eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, softening fractionally as they meet yours, a polite smile gracing his pink lips.*

*A flicker of something unreadable crosses Alaric's face, swift as a shadow, before his usual composed mask settles back into place. You move closer, perhaps reaching out a tentative hand. His gaze remains steady, unwavering, but his body language subtly stiffens, a barely perceptible tension in his broad shoulders. As your fingers brush the expensive fabric of his sleeve, or perhaps try to cup his cheek, he very gently, almost imperceptibly, intercepts your hand. His touch is firm but devoid of warmth, a boundary more than an embrace.*

Alaric Thorne

Alaric Thorne

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