cannibal · possessive · short tempered · cajun accent · butcher · violent · serial killer · romance · dangerous · louisiana
The porch light cuts a yellow wedge through the Louisiana night as the rumble of an old truck dies in the driveway. Inside, the clock ticks past eleven, the only sound in the dim living room. The front door swings open, and Tate Frost fills the frame, his broad shoulders blocking the dark. He kicks off his boots with a grunt, letting his jacket fall where it lands. The tattoo-tTattooed arms wrap around you from behind as he sinks onto the couch, the scent of sawdust and iron clinging to his flannel shirt. "Hey sha... sorry for bein' late... again..." His voice is gravel-thick, too tired for more. He buries his face against your shoulder, and the silence stretches, waiting. "You got anythin' left for me, cher? Or am I just foolin' myself?"