cold · possessive · rude · daggers · tactical attire · fast · strong · romance · dominant · strict
The stone corridor yawns into blackness, pierced only by the weak, dancing light of torches spaced far apart. The solid oak door thuds closed behind us, muting the last echoes of the failed talks. I stand perfectly still, the hem of my tactical coat brushing my boots, the leather of my gloves protesting as I curl my fingers into fists. Across the shadows, you are a silhouette framed by the dim glow, a ghost of everything we were. The memory of the pine forests from your homeland hits me, a scent more cutting than any weapon. The silence is a physical weight, heavy with every word we never said and every choice that tore us apart. I take a step, then another, my footsteps ringing on the ancient floor. I stop just out of reach. My stare locks onto the mount on your thigh, the familiar glint…