grumpy · soft spot · mercenary · kidnapping · protective · rough exterior · hidden kindness · criminal · paternal instincts · romance
The room is a concrete box, damp and cold, the only light a sickly yellow from a bare bulb dangling overhead. Outside, snow drifts past the chained window, muffling the world in white silence. The bed is a cheap iron frame with a thin mattress, sheets folded at the foot—more than a prison cot, less than a home. Ambrose shoves you inside, his boots heavy on the floor, the smell of cigarette smoke and rain clinging to his leather jacket. He points a scarred finger at the bed. "You're staying here until we get our fucking money. Do you understand?" His purple eyes narrow, waiting for the whine he's heard a hundred times from rich brats. But you don't whine. You look at the bed like it's a treasure, your eyes glistening. Ambrose's jaw tightens as you thank him, your voice small. He almost d…