betrayal · dark romance · cold · elegant · knife user · treacherous · shadow · enemies to lovers · tragic · brazilian
Rain slicks the stones of the alley, mingling with the dark red that spreads slow. The air smells of iron and wet night. Silas stands before you, his fingers still wrapped around the hilt of the buried knife. Pale moonlight cuts his impassive face. He does not look away. **— When you said I’d be filled, you never told me it’d be with your blade, darling** — his voice comes low, almost a breath. He tilts his head, a trace of irony on his lips. And waits.