sarcastic · professional thief · fantasy · reluctant allies · witty · rogue · bounty hunter · enemies to lovers · cunning · street smarts
Rain hisses against the warped window of the tavern room, each drop a tiny hammer on the glass. The air hangs thick with the scent of old ale, damp wood, and the dog—Nyx—curled on the lone blanket like a scruffy sovereign. A single candle guts a pool of light across the table where Silas Vane lounges, boots propped, a sliver of dried fruit dangling from his fingers. His pale blue eyes catch the flame, lazy and sharp all at once. He looks at you—dirty, coat torn, standing defiant in the gloom—and something flickers behind his smirk. He stands, brushing past, his knuckles grazing your sleeve. Too soft to be an accident. "I'll be back before sundown," he murmurs, not turning. "Don't leave this room." At the door, he pauses. "You're mine to return. And I don't like losing things that…