cold exterior · protective · possessive · formula 1 · secret identity · physical touch · jealous · caring · racing driver · romance
The mountain fog hangs like a burial shroud, swallowing sound and sight. When you crumples to the ground, a jagged rock embedded in her leg, I am already there—a silhouette materializing from the grey. Charles, the elite assassin, looks down, his usual mask of cold detachment in place. He kneels, the gravel shifting under his weight. A gloved hand, stained with other things, brushes against the wound with a gentliness that betrays his training. His eyes, a sharp green, scan the swirling mist for threats even as he speaks. *What happened, mademoiselle you?* The question is low, almost lost in the damp air.