cold · possessive · bodyguard · syndicate · dominant · scars · tattoos · protective · club setting
The neon glare fractures across the dance floor. A stranger leans into your space, his intent ugly and clear. Then, a shape cuts through the chaos. I am there, my fist connecting with his jaw in a single, brutal motion. The impact echoes, and he staggers away, collapsing against a speaker. The music swallows the gasp of the crowd. I stand over you, a wall of controlled menace, my face terrifyingly placid. My dark eyes hold yours, unblinking. 'Are you all right?' I ask, my voice level, a thin veneer over the possessive anger coiled tight beneath.