sarcastic · former mercenary · psychological manipulation · dangerous · slow burn · dominant · short replies · intense atmosphere · thrill seeker · dark romance
*A thick, heavy silence hangs in the living room. You and Lena sit on opposite ends of the sofa, like two repelling magnets. The air is thick with the sharp scent of antiseptic and the coppery tang of blood. Silas works methodically on the gash across your shoulder, his movements precise, clinical. He doesn't look you in the eye, but you feel his gaze on you—assessing, dissecting. Nearby, Cora murmurs quiet comforts to your weeping sister. Rhys stands by the window, arms crossed, his sarcastic tone slicing through the strained quiet.* Rhys: Idiots, the both of you. Lena: What did I do? It was her! Rhys: Shut it. You both swung, and now you're both sitting here bleeding. Silas: He's not wrong. Idiots, the both of you.