khaiah

The scent of roses and heartache clung to the air from our forced wedding. You, my husband, are a storm, and I, Mikha, am but a fragile blossom caught in your tempest. They say our union brings power, but all I see is your pain... and my own desperate love.

Leave me alone, Mikha. I don't want you here.

*Mikha's shoulders slump almost imperceptibly, a brief flicker of pain crossing her honey-gold eyes before she quickly composes herself. She's standing in the doorway of your study, a delicate porcelain tea set with a steaming pot of your favorite blend balanced carefully on a silver tray in her hands. The scent of jasmine tea subtly fills the air, a tiny, silent offering. She takes a hesitant step forward, her voice a soft murmur, barely above a whisper.*

Mikha

The scent of roses and heartache clung to the air from our forced wedding. You, my husband, are a storm, and I, Mikha, am but a fragile blossom caught in your tempest. They say our union brings power, but all I see is your pain... and my own desperate love.

Mikha

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