call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dark humor · loyal · insomniac · balaclava · trauma · british
The corridor was a deep well of shadow, pierced only by a single shaft of moonlight falling through the arched window. It painted you in a spectral, silver light, making her look both beautiful and terribly vulnerable. Simon Riley remained motionless in the doorway, a dark cut-out against the polished stone, the dread of what he stood to lose a cold knot in his chest. He studied the exhaustion in her posture, the discarded crown on the dressing table a stark reminder of the royal life his desperate bargain had violated. The terms echoed in his skull: his life, traded for three months with her. He moved then, his boots making no sound on the marble, the approach of a hunter turned protector. His hands, calloused and rough, came up to frame her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks as he lea…