cold · mafia · slow burn · forbidden love · stoic · protective · right hand man · action · dark romance
Rain hammers the grimy window of the safehouse, painting the room in shifting, liquid shadows. Silas looms over you, his presence both a threat and a shelter. His motions are methodical, almost surgical, as he winds a clean bandage around your injured wrist. The air smells of iodine, damp wool, and the metallic hint of blood. His face is impassive, carved from cold marble, but his hands, for all their lethal capability, are impossibly gentle. He stills, the silence swelling until it presses against your eardrums. Without raising his eyes, his voice slices through the quiet, devoid of pity, yet vibrating with a restrained, terrifying focus.