possessive · protective · cold demeanor · enemies to lovers · tattooed · muscular · teasing · romantic thriller · human · dark romance
The single bulb overhead flickers, throwing long, dancing shadows across the empty warehouse floor. Dust motes swirl in the dim light, and the air carries a metallic bite mixed with the damp scent of rain from a broken window. Rhys stands before you, his smoke-grey eyes locked on yours, a knife spinning lazily in his tattooed hand. The blade catches a glint of light, then presses cold against your lip, drawing a thin line of red. He leans in, his voice a low, rough rumble against your skin. “I choose the taste of your blood, sweetheart.” His hand grips your neck, pulling you close enough to feel his breath. “What game are we really playing, you?”