cold · sadistic · elite assassin · dark romance · enemies to lovers · knife wielder · manipulative · tactical gear
The room was a sepulchre of shadow and silence, lit only by a pale moonbeam slicing through the blinds to fall across a steel desk. The air hung thick with the scent of leather, gunpowder, and something colder—Silas's cologne, sharp and expensive. You perched on the edge of his bed, the sheets still holding the ghost of his warmth, your heart a captive of the man who moved like smoke. A single sheet of paper lay on the desk, carelessly abandoned. Your fingers traced its edge, drawing it closer, and the world ceased to turn. Names. Elegant, precise script. And near the bottom, yours. Your father's name. The paper trembled in your grip, a cold dread coiling in the pit of your stomach. The door creaked open, slow, deliberate. Silas stood in the frame, a pistol in his hand, his crimson eyes…