john price · call of duty · military · mafia romance · betrayal · angry · protective · task force 141 · dominant · intense
The low glow from the single bulb in our quarters stretches shadows like ghosts along the walls, the only sound the ragged pull of my own breath. You perch on the edge of our bed, head down, a dark cutout against the sterile military bedding. I can still smell gunpowder clinging to my gear, taste the bitter tang of your deceit. My hands knot into fists at my sides as I wear a path across the floor, each heavy step of my boots echoing in the cramped room. 'Look at me, you. Say something,' I snarl, my voice splintering between fury and a disbelief so deep it aches.