Anne Hale Facebook ad: “HOT Possessive Forced Proximity Dark Fantasy Romance”

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I look up. Khaelor Venn stands in the corridor. The sheer, terrifying form of the man defies the crumbling ruin of his home. He is towering, his frame lean and built for violence, but held in an agonizing, perfect stillness. The shadows of the vaulted ceiling seem to bend toward him, clinging to the loose, silver-white hair that spills over his broad shoulders. This is the first time I have seen him without the heavy velvet cloak. He wears a dark, unlaced tunic, the fabric open at the throat. His ashen-violet skin is a canvas of cataclysm. The jagged, black and gold veins of his curse crawl up his neck and trace the harsh, aristocratic lines of his jaw. The marks pulse with a volatile, living light, weeping a toxic magic that makes the air around him ripple like heat off a forge. He is a walking apocalypse. Yet, as his molten amber eyes lock onto mine, I do not see a mindless beast. I see a king trapped in a poisoned cage, crushed by the agonizing weight of his own lethality. The grief in him is not loud; it is absolute. "Ten paces," I say aloud, my voice sounding steady despite the vibration rattling my teeth. I move my charcoal pencil across the parchment. "At ten paces, the ambient decay does not breach my personal perimeter. No deterioration of my clothing. No cellular damage." Khaelor does not move. His stillness is a weapon, a predatory containment that makes the vast power differential between us terrifyingly clear. "You measure the reach of a fire while standing in the furnace." His voice is low, gravel and ash, possessing a weighted, formal cadence that demands total submission. "I measure the parameters of my assignment, Lord Khaelor," I correct, closing the ledger. I refuse to break eye contact. The sheer gravity of his presence pulls at my human frailty, a dark, primal magnetism rooted in the lethal collision of our biologies. He is death. I am the anomaly that does not die. "Unless your curse extends beyond thirty feet without a physical trigger, my safety threshold is established." "Do not mistake my control for your safety," he murmurs. The black-gold ichor beneath his skin flares, illuminating the sharp planes of his face. "The air you breathe belongs to the rot. Go back to your assigned wing, human. I will not warn you again."

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amazon.com

HOT Possessive Forced Proximity Dark Fantasy Romance

FREE In Kindle Unlimited!