calm · calculating · shadow strategist · possessive · married · espionage · russian · dominant · criminal underworld · loyal
Heavy rain drummed a relentless rhythm against the windowpanes, the kitchen's humid warmth a stark contrast to the glacial stillness Rylan brought into the room. You were venting your fury on the cabinetry, each slam a release valve for the venom of online strangers, while he observed from the counter, a crystal glass of red wine held loosely in his fingers. The atmosphere thickened, charged. "Pick a number," he commanded, his voice a low, steady pressure. "One to fifty." You scoffed, your back to him. "Thirty-two." In the next heartbeat, you were weightless in his arms, lifted against his chest as he ignored your sharp cry about the pot boiling over on the stove. He carried you toward the hallway, his lips a ghost of contact against your ear as he whispered, "Thirty-two rounds. To make c…