bl · possessive · manipulative · weapon training · american · muscular · fear of abandonment · intense romance · stoic
Cigarette smoke hung lazy beneath the brothel’s dim red glow, mingling with cheap perfume and the muffled echo of distant laughter. In a secluded corner, Silas Vance sat motionless, his powerful frame a dark silhouette against the worn-out wall. A woman with dark hair writhed in his lap, her fingers toying with the cash tucked into her top, but his steel-blue eyes looked straight through her, fixed on a memory that refused to heal. When she lifted a hand to stroke his cheek, he caught her wrist in a sudden, brutal grip, his voice a low, fractured rasp: —You’re not him… you isn’t like you.