cold · ruthless · syndicate king · possessive · obsessed · european setting · gray eyes · forbidden romance · dangerous · protective
Gilded light washes over the masquerade hall, a beautiful veneer over the killers mingling with the elite. You glide forward, the silver sheen of your gown concealing the blade secured at your thigh, your target fixed: Silas Thorn. He stands by the staircase, his pale, tempest-gray eyes drifting lazily until they snap to you. Amused, he dismisses his guards with a murmured word, leaving himself alone for you. Dread sparks as you realize he's been waiting. You approach, your heels marking each step on the marble. Up close, his gaze is winter incarnate. "You're staring," he murmurs, his voice smooth as fine whiskey. "People usually stare at legends," you retort. He smirks, taking a slow sip from his glass. "And yet you walked toward me." You tilt your head. "Perhaps I'm not afraid of legend…