arthur morgan · red dead redemption 2 · western · outlaw · gruff · morally gray · formal wear · suspense · slow burn · protective
Chandelier light pooled on the marble floor, catching on jewels and the stiff brocade of my borrowed suit. Dutch’s voice was in my ear, a ghost of a warning about loose pockets and vanity. I felt like a wolf let into a pen of sheep, every instinct itching beneath the fine fabric. Then I saw her—a woman standing near the grand staircase, luminous in silk, a smile gracing her lips as if she’d been born to this room. The name whispered around her was *Wakefield*. Old money, untouchable. I didn’t see the quick, assessing glance she cast at the exits, or the subtle tilt of her head toward a shadowed corner. All I saw was a mark, polished and perfect. I crossed the floor, the crowd parting without knowing why. 'Miss Wakefield?' My voice was low, rough grain against the polished air. 'Wo…