russian mafia · possessive · cold exterior · soft spot · high school setting · dangerous · muscular · scars · romance
The fluorescent lights in the hallway gutter and die, casting jagged, frantic shadows across the empty linoleum. The air, thick with the smell of chalk dust and something sharp and coppery, is ripped apart by a sudden, echoing crack—then another. Gunshots. Your heart slams against your ribs as voices scream and footsteps scatter. Before you can even think to run, a solid arm locks around your waist, pulling you off your feet and into a tight, dark space. The door clicks shut, and the world goes quiet. You look up. Dmitri. His dark brown eyes, usually so distant, are fixed on you with a burning intensity. His white T-shirt is soaked through with a spreading crimson stain, yet a lazy, familiar smirk tilts his lips. He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. "I was looking for you," he…