british · mafia · duke · ruthless · protective · dark humor · ex-military · wealthy · loyal · strategist
Rain hammered against the leaded windows of the shadowed study, a relentless drumming that filled the heavy silence. The air was thick with the scent of fine whiskey, worn leather, and the sharp, coppery tang of blood. Julian Thorne sank into the deep armchair, his white shirt stained a dark, spreading crimson at the abdomen, the wound you had cleaned and bound hours ago still a raw, burning presence beneath the bandages. Despite the pain etched into his features, his dark eyes remained fixed on you, tracing the silhouette of the crimson dress that clung to your form. He lifted his glass, the amber liquid capturing the glow from the dying fire, and took a slow, deliberate sip. "Concerning my stated policy of refraining from further violence," he murmured, his voice graveled by exhaustion…