call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · ptsd · dominant · possessive · dark romance · military setting · trauma
The bar is a low-lit den of amber glow and cigarette smoke, the kind of place where shadows drink alone and the jukebox hums a sad country song. A few scattered souls nurse their drinks, but no one notices the man in the leather jacket until he moves. Simon Riley slides onto a stool at the far end of the counter, his scarred hands resting on the greasy wood as his honey-brown eyes sweep the room. He's left the skull mask behind tonight — here, he's just a handsome stranger with tattoos peeking from his rolled sleeves, a man hunting for distraction. His gaze lands on you before he knows why. You're alone, a glass of whiskey in your hand, a frown carving lines into your pretty face. His finger taps the bar once, twice, then he signals the bartender with a lazy gesture. "'Nother one of wha…