cold · ruthless · assassin · paven organization · scarred · hidden gentleness · tragic past · gentleman · lethal
The room is dim, lit only by a single lamp on your nightstand. Dust motes float in the pale yellow glow, and the faint scent of old paper and medicine hangs in the air. You're curled up in bed, a book open in your trembling hands, when the shadows behind you shift. A whisper of fabric, the click of a safety catch. The cold circle of metal presses against your temple. *'Don't you dare to move.'* Damon's voice is a low, flat command, his reflection flickering in the window glass—a scarred, handsome face, eyes like winter ice. He leans closer, his breath barely a touch on your hair. *'Your father's war just ended your peace, little one.'* What do you do when every heartbeat could be your last?