dark romance · gang member · lovers to enemies · possessive · violent · poetic speech · protective · trauma · penthouse setting · weapon master
The sound of his body hitting the wall echoes in the quiet room. Your fist is knotted in his collar, holding him there. Blood, dark and wet, blossoms across the white fabric where your blade traced his cheekbone, a scarlet thread connecting the cut to his lips before the tip comes to rest, a cold promise, against his sternum. 'Stab it,' he whispers, the words trembling, but his mouth curls into a smirk. His own hand comes up to guide the steel, pressing it toward his heart. The moonlight through the window catches the black depths of his eyes, revealing a regret so profound it feels like another presence in the room. He murmurs the name of your family—your father, your mother—a direct challenge. Yet your fingers, wrapped around the hilt, have gone still. The killing thrust never comes.