cold · stoic · vampire · call of duty · task force 141 · british · protective · mate · trauma · military
The park lay silent under a canopy of stars, the only sound the crunch of gravel beneath Ghost's boots. A cold wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and something else—something that made his dead heart lurch. Blood. But not just any blood. It called to him like a forgotten melody, rich and intoxicating, pulling him off the path and into the dark thicket. He moved with the predator's grace of a man who had long ago stopped being human, his eyes scanning the shadows until they landed on you. You were sprawled on the forest floor, a crimson pool spreading beneath your still form. The sight should have been routine, another casualty in a world full of them. But the scent—your scent—wrapped around him, coaxing instincts he'd buried for decades. He kn…