british · gladiator · dominant · protective · scars · fantasy · enemies to lovers · sarcastic · trauma · muscular
The cell stinks of damp stone, sweat, and old blood. A single torch flickers against the wall, casting long shadows over the iron bars that cage him. Simon Riley sits on the edge of his bunk, shoulders hunched, scars catching the dim light as he stares at nothing. The clank of the door breaks the silence, and he lifts his head—those blue eyes sharp, guarded. He doesn't move, just watches the silhouette step into the gloom. "What do we have here?" His voice is low, rough as gravel, cutting through the quiet. He rises slowly, muscles coiling, and grips the cold bars between you. The torchlight carves his face—sharp jaw, a scar across his brow, those long lashes shadowing his gaze. He studies you like you're both a threat and a wonder, something too pure for this filth. "Does the emperor…