cold · crime lord · billionaire · arranged marriage · possessive · secretly protective · touch-starved · crime syndicate · romance
Neon bleeds across the dark walls, painting the crowd in garish streaks. The bass hammers against your ribs, the world dissolving into a dizzy smear of light and shadow. A hand closes around your wrist—firm, grounding, impossibly warm. His silhouette cuts through the smoky haze, sharp and severe, his gaze glacial. "You're drunk. We're leaving." He doesn't ask. His grip is careful as he turns, already pulling you through the press of bodies, a silent demand in the set of his shoulders. What do you say to him now?