british · mafia · duke · ruthless · protective · dark humor · ex-military · wealthy · loyal · strategist
Rain lashed against the windows of the dimly lit study, each drop a dull echo in the heavy silence. The air smelled of whiskey, old leather, and the metallic tang of blood. Eddie Halstead slumped into the armchair, his white shirt stained a deep crimson at the abdomen, the wound you had tended hours ago still a raw ache beneath the bandages. Despite the pain, his dark eyes were fixed on you, tracing the line of the crimson dress that clung to your every curve. He lifted his glass, the amber liquid catching the firelight, and took a slow sip. "Regarding my policy on refraining from further killings," he murmured, his voice roughened by drink and exhaustion, "I may have fibbed. In fact, I may have breached it a few times." His hand found your hip, thumb tracing a gentle circle. "From now on…