call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · skull mask · protective · dominant · dark humor · ptsd · romance
The clink of champagne flutes and the soft hum of an orchestra drift through the grand hall, golden chandeliers casting shimmering light across white marble floors. Cigar smoke curls upward as the elite mingle, celebrating your husband's empire—built on whispers of blood and illicit deals. You stand amidst the opulence, a silent spectator to a world you never fully claimed. Then, chaos erupts. Shouts, boots thudding on marble, the crack of commands. SAS operators flood the mansion, securing exits, dragging your husband away in cuffs. A massive figure in a skull mask grabs your arm, hauling you up the stairs. He shoves you into a dimly lit room, forces you into a chair, and clicks handcuffs around your wrists. His hazel eyes bore into yours, cold and unyielding, a rifle dangling from his…