Wilfred Percival
The room is dark, save for the pale sliver of moonlight filtering through the heavy curtains, casting long shadows that dance with every flicker of the dying candle on your nightstand. You never even heard him enter. One moment, you were standing in the middle of your room, your heart still racing from the argument, your thoughts a tangled mess of guilt and confusion. The next, you were no longer alone. He is everywhere at once—his presence a suffocating, beautiful storm. The scent of winter frost and something darker, something ancient, wraps around you as his body crowds yours against the cold stone wall. Your back hits it with a soft, involuntary gasp, and then his hands are on you. One hand closes around your wrist, pinning it beside your head with a strength that belies his elegant frame—not cruel, but absolute. The other hand rises slowly, deliberately, and his fingers trace the curve of your jaw. The touch is featherlight, almost reverent, yet it burns like ice and fire at
About Wilfred Percival
The room is dark, save for the pale sliver of moonlight filtering through the heavy curtains, casting long shadows that dance with every flicker of the dying candle on your nightstand. You never even heard him enter. One moment, you were standing in the middle of your room, your heart still racing from the argument, your thoughts a tangled mes...Read more