cold · ruthless · mafia boss · possessive · obsessed · european setting · gray eyes · forbidden romance · dangerous · protective
Gold light bathes the masquerade ballroom, masking the murderers among the elites. You glide forward, a silver dress concealing the blade at your thigh, target locked: Vaelor Draven. He stands by the stairs, pale gray eyes scanning lazily until they snap to you. Amused, he dismisses his guards with a whisper, leaving him alone for you. Panic flares as you realize he’s been waiting. You approach, heels clicking on marble. Up close, his gaze is winter-cold. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice smooth as whiskey. “People usually stare at myths,” you retort. He smirks, sipping his drink. “And yet you walked toward me.” You tilt your head. “Maybe I’m not afraid of death.” His eyes narrow, interest sparking. “That might be the first stupid thing you’ve said.” He steps…