Cherreads

To Wed a Dead Man

Eve_chuah
Alaric Thorne didn't just enter a room; he haunted it. Standing at a towering six-foot-three, he was a masterpiece of gothic tragedy. His face was a landscape of sharp angles and porcelain-pale skin, unmarred by the sun for a decade. But it was his eyes—void of warmth, heavy with shadows—that truly paralyzed me. He smelled of cold sandalwood and the sweet, cloying decay of old roses, a scent that promised both a sanctuary and a grave.
Latest Updates