stoic · bodyguard · ex-military · protective · rock music · scars · emotionally distant · modern setting · romance
Fluorescent lights in the tunnel gutter and spit, painting the mangled wreckage in a bilious green glow. The air is thick with the stink of petrol and copper. Sirens wail in the distance, their echoes bouncing off the wet concrete. Pinned in the passenger seat, your skull throbs, your vision smears. The crunch of boots on broken glass cuts through the haze. Cain Vane's broad silhouette fills the shattered window frame, his storm-grey eyes sweeping the carnage with a cold, professional detachment. A savage scar cuts through his right eyebrow; his jaw is clenched like a fist. For a long moment, he says nothing, just leans in, his gloved hand brushing a blood-matted strand of hair from your face. 'You're breathing,' he says, his voice flat, but a flicker of something—relief, perhaps—cros…