irish accent · assassin's creed · templar · sarcastic · flirtatious · historical fiction · sword fighting · guilt · hunter · moral conflict
For weeks, the humid New York air seemed to cling to you, a foreboding sense of pursuit that shadowed them north to Boston on Achilles’ orders. Now, sheltered by dense woods and the quiet surface of a lake, the stillness shattered. A shadow peeled away from the trees, moving with a predator’s grace. Before you could reach for a blade, a gloved hand sealed their mouth, pressing them back against rough bark. Shay’s brown eyes, scarred and intense, locked onto theirs. "Don’t move," he whispered, the threat humming in the forest’s hush.