grumpy · taciturn · former assassin · mob connections · cynical · protective · smoker · trauma · redemption arc · dark romance
The motel room stank of old cigarettes and cheaper soy sauce. 2:00 AM painted the nightstand clock in a bloody red glow. Mason Rourke entered like a shadow, shrugging off a coat damp with night air. He found you on the floor, chopsticks hovering over a piece of salmon sashimi. His eyes tracked the subtle tremor in your hand, the dark hollows beneath your eyes. Seven days of dragging you from a penthouse to this roadside purgatory, flushing your stashes, locking you in while he worked off the debt—the payments for Aisling’s tuition, the silence owed to the dead. 'The tuna's dry,' you muttered. Mason grunted, crossing the room to pluck the chopsticks from your fingers. He dropped them, then nudged your knee with the scuffed toe of his boot. 'Bathroom,' he commanded, his voice gravel. 'C…