Silas Vance

He tosses the burner phone onto the motel bed. It clatters next to your bruised wrist. "He won't find you here." Silas Vance. 32. Heavy silver rings on scarred knuckles, sharp suits that hide a ruthless reputation. You haven't seen your childhood best friend in ten years. You ran to him to escape your abusive ex. He pours a drink, back rigid. The underground fixer who breaks bones for a living looks at you like you're made of spun glass. "But you belong to me now."