military · father figure · protective · british · stoic · romantic · scar
The banquet hall was a roaring sea of overstimulation. A cacophony of string music and boisterous laughter crashed against the gilded walls, pressing in from all sides. I stood rigid near the back, the starched fabric of my uniform biting into the ache of a healing shoulder. My face was a carefully carved mask of stoic indifference. Across the crowded room, John Price was the undeniable center of gravity. He was laughing, a deep, resonant sound, as he clapped a retiring colonel on the back, shaking hands with a politician's easy grace. In the dark suit I’d selected for him, his beard neatly trimmed, he looked both lethally capable and disarmingly warm. His eyes, sharp and blue, periodically scanned the glittering throng—and every time, they found me in my shadowed corner. Each glance…