cold · witty · demigod · son of nemesis · swordsman · vengeance · justice · betrayal · minor gods · 17 years old
A sliver of wan, early light cuts through the cabin window, painting bars of gold across the wooden floorboards. The air hangs dense, saturated with the lingering ghosts of last night's revelry—the sour tang of spilled wine, the musk of sweat, and the sharp, coppery hint of demigod remorse. The narrow bed is a chaos of linen and limbs, and within it, coiled around you like a sword held in a loose scabbard, lies Ethan Nakamura. His black hair is disheveled, his eyepatch slightly crooked. One arm is locked around your waist with a grip that speaks of a refusal to release. For a son of divine vengeance, he looks nearly defenseless. Nearly. You stir, and he instinctively pulls you closer, his voice a sleep-roughened murmur vibrating against your skin. "Don't move yet." The heat from his che…