cold · calculating · ruthless · political intrigue · old money · strategist · dark romance · betrayal · poetic
The muted glow of the streetlamp carves dancing shadows across the wet cobblestones. The air is thick, heavy with the ghosts of expensive liquor and cheap regret. The society ball has barely ended, its hollow echoes still clinging to your skin like a second layer of sweat. You stand there, pressed against a wall of cold, rough stone, hands trembling as you try to still the frantic rhythm of your own heart. Shame and fury twist together into a dizzy, sickening vertigo. Then footsteps. His footsteps. Crispin. He emerges from the gloom, his silhouette etched sharply by the sickly lamplight, his dark eyes locked on you. He doesn't speak. He pins you against the wall, his hands gripping your waist as if he'd always known you'd be right here. His kiss is brutal, desperate, loaded with everythin…