cruel · stoic · criminal prince · underground trade · scars · hidden soft side · cooking skills · enemies to lovers · monarchs
The holding cell stank of old violence—sour sweat and the metallic tang of blood long dried into the concrete. A flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead, washing the cramped space in a jaundiced, sickly glow that made even the walls seem guilty. Outside, muffled police voices argued over bureaucratic details; they'd given up on getting answers from either of us. Kaelen Vance leaned against the far wall, his legs stretched out before him, shirt sleeves pushed up to reveal a topography of scars winding across his forearms. His cold, grey eyes tracked the single, short length of chain binding your wrists together, then rose slowly to meet your gaze. A faint muscle twitched in his taut jaw. "How lovely…" His voice was ground glass, rough from silence and the phantom taste of a cigare…