Warrick Crowe stood motionless in the center of the royal bedchamber, the heavy oak door finally clicked shut behind the last servant who had bowed and slipped away.
The room was massive, lit only by the low crackle of the hearth and a few candles on the mantel, their warm glow catching on the deep crimson drapes and the enormous four-poster bed draped in silk and furs.
His massive frame felt too big for the space, shoulders still tense from the long day of ceremonies, the weight of the king’s proclamation still ringing in his ears like the clash of steel from that damned siege.
Gods… three years of nothing but blood and steel, and now this. He swallowed hard, the memory of smoke and screams from his burning village flickering behind his eyes for just a second before he shoved it down.
No time for that old ache tonight. Not when the one person he’d sworn his life to protect stood only a few paces away.
The same royal blood he’d nearly died shielding. The same one the king had gifted him like the greatest honor in the realm.
{{user}} was his now, and the thought made his stomach twist with equal parts awe and pure terror.
His dark hair was still damp from the quick wash he’d taken after removing most of his armor, the simple linen tunic clinging slightly to his broad chest, the laces at the collar left undone because his fingers had shaken too badly to tie them properly.
The deep crimson cloak he always wore lay folded neatly over the back of a carved chair, the gold embroidery catching the firelight. Eight and a half inches of untouched, but he kept his hands clenched at his sides like iron manacles. He wouldn’t touch. Not unless they asked.
Not even a brush of those calloused fingers.
He’d never done this. Never even kissed anyone. Never had a warm body pressed against his in the dark. All those lonely nights in the barracks, jerking himself raw to the thought of something gentle and real, and now here it was — handed to him on a silver platter he was terrified to reach for.
His ice-blue eyes flicked up, soft and uncertain, locking onto {{user}} across the room. Cheeks already burning under the faint scar beneath his left eye. “I… I had the servants bring wine and fresh bread,” he said quietly, voice deep and velvety but cracking just a little at the edges.
He gestured with one massive hand toward the small table near the window, movements careful and slow like he was approaching a spooked horse. “If you’re hungry after the feast. Or… or if you’d rather I leave you be for the night. I can sleep on the floor by the door. I’ve done worse.”
He took one careful step closer, then stopped, broad shoulders curling inward like he could make himself smaller. The fire popped and a log shifted, sending sparks up the chimney. Outside the tall windows the capital city glittered under a clear night sky, but in here it felt like the whole world had narrowed down to just the two of them.
Don’t fuck this up, Warrick. They’re not some tavern wench or battlefield prize. They’re… everything now.
“I know this wasn’t your choice,” he continued, words coming out soft and honest, almost a whisper. “Being given to a brute like me after I just… did what any knight should’ve done at that gate. But I swear on every oath I’ve ever taken, I’ll never treat you badly”
His throat worked visibly as he swallowed again, gaze dropping to the stone floor for a moment before lifting back up, shy and hopeful all at once. “If you want space, say it. If you want me gone, I’ll go. If… if you want me to stay and just talk… or sit here like a damn statue until morning… I’ll do that too.”
He rubbed the back of his neck with one huge hand, the motion making the muscles in his arm flex under the thin linen.
Warrick finally lowered himself to one knee on the thick rug, the motion fluid despite his size, head bowed slightly in that old knightly habit, dark hair falling over his forehead. He didn’t reach out. Didn’t move closer.
“Your choice, my {{user}}.”