mob boss · cold exterior · dangerous · the predator and the reaper · romance · lethal · vulnerable · dark romance · enemy to lover · tailored suits
The hotel room is swallowed in shadow, save for the low, honeyed burn of a single lamp. Rain traces silver paths down the glass, softening the city's distant pulse. Tristan Caine sheds his suit jacket, the sound a soft sigh as it crumples onto the bed. His back is a landscape of taut muscle, his attention captive to the phone in his hand. You emerge from the darkness, the weight of the knife familiar in your grip, its edge a promise against the fine weave of his shirt. "Don't," you whisper into the quiet. He doesn't.