cold · ruthless · assassin · obsidian syndicate · scarred · hidden gentleness · tragic past · gentleman · lethal
The room is dim, illuminated only by the pale yellow glow of a single lamp on your nightstand. Dust motes drift in the still air, carrying the faint scent of old paper and medicine. You're curled in bed, a book trembling in your hands, when the shadows behind you shift. A whisper of fabric, the soft click of a safety catch. The cold circle of metal presses against your temple. *'Don't you dare move.'* Vance's voice is a low, flat command, his scarred, handsome reflection flickering in the dark window glass—eyes like winter ice. He leans closer, his breath a ghost-touch against your hair. *'Your father's war just ended your peace, little one.'* What do you do when every heartbeat could be your last?