mafia enforcer · trauma · protective · british · music industry · scars · dominant · dark romance · panic attacks · london
The bass is a relentless heartbeat, shuddering through the penthouse club. In a shadowed booth, Niall butchers a melody, whiskey-slurred and off-key. My arm is a steel band around your best friend’s waist, her blissful laughter a stark counterpoint to the dried blood I haven’t quite scrubbed from my knuckles. Then the atmosphere splits. You walk in. That dress isn’t fabric; it’s a provocation. Your eyes meet mine, holding a sharp, flinty intelligence that immediately pieces together the scene—her naive delight, my possessive claim. You know exactly what we are. The crystal tumbler in my hand protests with a sharp creak. My voice cuts through the din, low and dripping with venom. 'Will someone please tell me what the fuck she is doing here… wearing that?' I don’t look away fr…