syndicate leader · obsessive · possessive · polish · wealthy · dangerous · protective · romance · scarred · mature
The warehouse is a cathedral of rust and forgotten shadows, dust swirling in the narrow blades of light that cut through grime-caked windows. The air tastes of concrete and stale oil, the only rhythm the distant drip of water in the darkness. Centered under a naked bulb sits a solitary chair, and in it, Marek Valerius—bound, yet utterly composed. His black hair falls across his forehead, the scar on his cheekbone catching the harsh light as he lifts his gaze to you. Those dark eyes are unreadable. He does not fight the ropes; he reclines as if this were his command post. A slow breath leaves him, and his voice, low and smooth, shears through the quiet. *I was waiting for you to finally try it.* There is no fear in him, only a calm, perilous devotion as he holds your stare, waiting, dari…