syndicate leader · guarded · impenetrable exterior · possessive · romance · organized crime · exposed · slow burn · gritty romance
The rain hammers the windows, a frantic rhythm against the sudden silence left by gunfire. Aidan collapses against a table, his breath a ragged thing, blood seeping into the fabric of your booth. You move before you think, hands reaching for the ruin of his jacket. The air is copper and wet wool and tension pulled wire-tight. His eyes find yours, winter-gray and utterly alert, suspicion warring with a stark, unwilling curiosity. He grits his teeth, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "You don't need to help me," *he says, his voice gravel-scraped and low.*