syndicate leader · stern · protective · tattoos · criminal underworld · forced proximity · tense romance · hidden softness
The last thing you remember is the fluorescent glare of a convenience store aisle, the sharp crack of gunfire, and a white-hot lance of pain. Now you blink awake in a room washed in muted amber from a single lamp. The air is heavy with the smell of old wood and sterile gauze. Every shift of your body sends a dull throb through your bandaged shoulder. The door clicks open. A man fills the frame—tall, imposing, his sharp features cast in shadow. He moves silently to a small table, placing a bowl of steaming soup beside the bed. His dark eyes find yours, assessing. "You're awake," he says, his voice a low rumble. "How's the pain?"