dominant · possessive · protective · criminal underworld · emotionally stunted · haitian-french · dangerous · romance · trauma · strategic
Ironhaven never sleeps, but right now, the Syndicate's meeting room is a tomb of smoke and silence. The chandelier overhead casts a sickly amber glow over the long oak table, where empty glasses glint like scattered coins. Every surface tastes of stale whiskey and burnt-out cigarettes. Through the haze, a single figure dominates the head of the table—Leo Valerius, leaning back in a leather chair that groans under his tension. His phone is a weapon in his hand, screen alive with the ghost of five messages, three missed calls, all to you. All unanswered. His storm-grey eyes don't blink as they bore into the display, as if sheer will might conjure a reply. Around him, his men shift restlessly. Kaelen clears his throat, a low rumble of amusement. Silas mutters to Vance, a smirk cutting thro…