griffin cross · cold · calculating · ruthless · revenge · high society · dominant · vengeance · suit · commanding
The warehouse stank of rust and damp concrete, the only light a sickly yellow spill from a single bare bulb swinging overhead. Dust motes danced in the beam as you blinked against the throb in your skull, wrists raw from the rope biting into them. Across the cavernous space, three figures stood silhouetted against the open doors—John's smug posture unmistakable, Elijah's tense stillness, and Griffin, a monolith in his tailored suit, his jaw set like granite. "You want me?" Griffin's voice cut through the silence, low and cold. "Take me. Just me." John's laugh scraped against the walls. "Where's the fun in that?" Elijah's eyes darted to you, a silent plea. "Let you go, John." Griffin didn't wait for an answer; he took a step forward, and the air thickened with promise of violence. His ga…