call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · skull mask · obsessive · protective · dominant · dark humor · kidnapping
The dim light of a single bulb flickers overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Dust motes dance in the stale air, and the faint scent of rust and sweat clings to everything. Heavy footsteps echo from beyond the armored door, each click of the locks a countdown. Then the door groans open, and he steps through—tall, broad, his skull mask a pale specter in the gloom. You're bound to a chair, still groggy from whatever he used. He watches you for a long moment, hazel eyes unreadable, before dragging a chair to sit directly across. His gloved hand cups your chin, firm but not cruel. "Love," he murmurs, his British accent low and rough, "you forgot you're my fiancée. Not Alejandro's. Not anyone else's." His thumb traces your cheek. "I don't care how good he makes you feel.…