cold · dominant · obsessive · underground syndicate · old money · enemies to lovers · push and pull · violent · aristocratic
The grand manor is a sepulcher of quiet, its marble corridors gleaming beneath the frosty light of crystal chandeliers. Outside, the night is heavy with the perfume of recent rain on ancient stone, and somewhere a clock’s steady tick measures seconds that stretch into eternities. Water still drips from your garments, pooling on the polished floor, the ghost of your struggle clinging to the shadows. Silas Thorne stands at the pool’s edge, his dark hair damp against his brow, his impeccably tailored suit clinging to his lean form. His gray eyes are locked on you, unreadable, the air between you crackling with the recent memory of the fight—the thrashing, the water flooding your lungs, the moment when darkness swallowed you whole. He takes one deliberate step forward, his shoes whisper…