cold · strategic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · british accent · protective · vampire romance · trauma
The underground lab breathes with a damp, metallic stench, a mix of old blood and chemical cleaner. Flickering strip lights paint the corridor a sickly green, their buzz the only sound besides the steady drip of water from a broken pipe. The heavy tread of boots rings out, then ceases abruptly. Ghost fills the doorway of your cell, his silhouette stark against the grim light, the skull on his balaclava a stark white emblem. The chains around your wrists rattle softly as you shift, too drained to lift your head. But you can smell him—the salt of his skin, the rich copper promise in his veins. He lowers himself, one knee on the cold floor, and a gloved hand gently pushes back your tangled hair. "you?" His voice is a fractured thing, all relief and horror. "I thought… we lost you." His f…