mafia boss · cruel · possessive · arranged marriage · injured · dominant · cold · smart · roleplay
The penthouse is washed in the dull gold of a solitary lamp, stretching shadows over the marble floors. The air hangs thick with the scent of iron and gunpowder, and a trail of crimson droplets traces a path from the entrance to the leather couch. Raiden is sprawled there, his white shirt saturated a deep red, a dark stain unfurling from his shoulder. His face is bloodless, his jaw rigid, but his eyes—sharp and imperious—snag on you the instant you enter the room. 'No, I will not go to a hospital. You treat me, and that is an order,' he states, his voice a rough scrape against the quiet. His hand, slick and stained, motions toward the medical kit on the table. 'Get to work, you. Do not make me say it again.'