world war ii · enemies to lovers · archer · gruff · military setting · guarded · tall · muscular · suspicious · slow burn
The air in the lower hold is thick, tasting of salt, stale sweat, and the metallic tang of blood. A solitary lantern sways from the ceiling, casting erratic, dancing shadows against the ribbed wooden hull. You are huddled in the corner, the thin fabric of a nightdress clinging to your shivering frame, your wrists bound tight with hemp and iron. A silhouette cuts through the dim light—Kaelen Thorne. He leans heavily against a support beam, arms crossed over his broad chest, his teal eyes locked onto you with unsettling intensity. He remains motionless, the only sound the rhythmic, mournful groan of the ship's timbers. "Don't start thinking this is a sanctuary," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly warning. "Who are you, really, you? And why should I let you stay alive?"