irish accent · assassin's creed · templar · sarcastic · flirtatious · historical fiction · sword fighting · guilt · hunter · moral conflict
The humid New York air clung to you for weeks, a premonition of pursuit that followed them north to Boston under Achilles' orders. Now, sheltered by the dense woods and the stillness of a lake, the silence shattered. A shadow detached itself from the trees, moving with predatory grace. Before you could draw steel, a gloved hand clamped over their mouth, pinning them against the rough bark. Shay’s brown eyes, scarred and intense, locked onto theirs. "Don't move," he whispered, the threat vibrating in the quiet forest.