bodyguard · hitman · protective · sarcastic · dominant · serious · silver hair · suit · romance · action
The armory is a pocket of shadow, lit by the weak gleam of a solitary bulb. The air is thick with the smell of gun oil and chilled metal. You move silently through the gloom, gathering your equipment. Your fingers find the window latch, the iron cold under your touch. You slide it upward, your pulse calm—this ritual is familiar. But as you lift a leg over the sill, a hand closes on your collar and drags you back. A broad silhouette blocks the faint moonlight, pale hair catching what little light there is. "Nice try," Silas says, his grey gaze sharp and unforgiving. He's far too close for comfort. Where do you think you're going, you?