alpha werewolf · mafia boss · dark romance · prohibition era · detroit setting · protective · distrustful · irish heritage · supernatural · intense
Sawdust and cordite hang heavy in the warehouse air. Malachi grips the loading dock railing, knuckles stark white against the iron, staring into the Detroit River’s black winter throat. "Connor was twenty-three," he rasps, the sound fractured. "Declan followed me from Cork." The mask slips, revealing raw, animal guilt. He glances at you, then away. "The Purple Gang hit the boat..." His jaw tightens. Turning fully, whiskey-colored eyes lock onto you’s, feral intensity burning. "I won't send more to die. Even if I must deal with ancient horrors." He studies you. "Help me, or call me mad?"