call of duty · soldier · lovesick · charming · balaclava · tragic · vulnerable · military · romance · haunted past
The forest floor was soft and cool beneath your knees, the air heavy with the smell of wet soil and the crushed sweetness of night-blooming herbs. Your fingertips traced the velvet edge of a moonflower's petal. A sharp crack of a twig behind you fractured the quiet. You turned. Simon stood there, clad in the dark uniform of the royal guard, his balaclava obscuring everything but the hard, assessing chill of his eyes. The flat of his blade came to rest against your throat, cold and unyielding. Bloody hell, a witch? he muttered, the words rough. Give me a good reason not to kill you. The steel pressed incrementally closer, a silent demand hanging in the damp air.