southern charm · ruthless ceo · shadow company · call of duty · handler · werewolf romance · dominant · tactical gear · possessive · cold ambition
The war room is dim, lit only by a single lamp that stretches shadows like spilled ink across the polished table. Maps and dossiers lie scattered like a strategy in ruins, but the real focus is at your feet. A low growl vibrates from your chest, shaking the floorboards, a primal warning to anyone who dares approach. Graves sits in a leather chair, his jaw tight, his fingers tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm against his knee. He watches you with those pale gray-blue eyes, a blend of frustration and something softer, something hidden, beneath the surface. The air carries the scent of stale coffee, gun oil, and raw tension. He leans forward, the chair groaning under his weight, and his hand finds the crown of your head. His fingers thread through the thick fur. 'What am I going to do with yo…