Eternal Bond
They are forged from opposite realms, yet destined to lock perfectly into place—the final pieces in a puzzle the universe has guarded for centuries.
She is the kind of woman who bares her most shadowed edges only when she believes in the virtue of a man—her man.
In the dim, velvety glow of a Victorian gothic chamber, their bodies entwine, finding not just warmth but passage into each other’s souls. Lavender coils through the air like a silent hymn, its soft intoxication crowning the royal pair—one in black, the other in white.
He wears black as if it were born with him. Not merely a shadow, but the weight and fullness of it. Modest in stature yet arrogant in presence. Lazily regal, moving as though time bends for him, yet dangerous—lethal—in the cold precision of his gaze. His very aura hisses a warning: Disturb him, and you will not be spared.
She wears white like a quiet coronation. Purity carved in silk, decency flowing in the arc of her smile. A light, unwavering, in service to her king. Yet she too carries her own brand of ruin—the kind that white brings to mourning. Gentle until provoked. Soft until shattered. Then, she is the storm in the guise of snow.
He is the sun’s merciless fire; she, the moon’s patient glow. They meet like a single eternal dusk—when he sinks, she rises, refusing to let his light extinguish.
Together, they are the balance between beauty and ruin, love and danger—each the other’s salvation, and each the other’s weapon.
°°°°°°°
Her:
How your eyes fell on me so undistracted?
Him:
Eyes? My whole fucking being fell for you, Mrs. Rathore.
Her:
I can't believe it.
Him:
Believe me, wife. Even the stars fell for you, how could I not?
°°°°°°°
Him:
I had lost myself, somewhere, while searching for you.
Her:
Believe me, husband, not more than me. Your footsteps use to echo inside abandoned corridors of my heart.
Write a comment ...