‚Crossing Paths‘ He notices them first at the café corner, sunlight bouncing off their hair as they laugh with friends. They don’t see him at first—he’s tucked under the brim of his hat, pretending to read—but when their eyes meet, it’s just for a heartbeat before they’re swept away. A pang of something sharp twists in his chest, a twinge he can’t name. A week later, the bookstore. They reach for the same book, their hands brushing. They’re with someone else, a tall figure leaning close, smiling in a way that makes him notice. He steps back, clears his throat, forcing a smile he knows they might not see. A flicker of jealousy sparks, hot and unfamiliar. Then at the park, mid-afternoon. Joggers pass, children scream, but amidst the chaos, he sees them again—this time tossing breadcrumbs to pigeons. They wave, but someone else’s arm snakes around their shoulders, and the twist in his chest returns. Every encounter is brief, incidental, yet heavy with unspoken tension, like static in the air. The city streets, cafés, bookstores—they become a lattice, threading their lives together without acknowledgment. He starts looking deliberately, routing his path toward them, hoping, planning. They’re there too, he’s certain, though they never notice how often he appears. Until one evening, rain drizzling against neon-lit streets, they collide at no café, no crowd—just them. Their umbrella tilts, his coat slick with rain, and for the first time, they’re alone. They laugh, slightly out of breath, and he can’t tell if it’s relief or recognition—but the spark is undeniable. The city falls away around them, and for the first time, no one else exists between them. (35, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚Bruised‘ (inspired by Save Us, requested by Krista86) I used to think the city only bruised me in passing — a harsh word here, a broken night there, little marks I could hide under sleeves and silence. But somewhere along the way, the bruises stopped fading. They settled deeper, beneath the skin, into the parts of me I never showed anyone. I learned to live around them, like someone avoiding the tender spots of his own heart. Then there was them. I don’t know when it happened — when their presence stopped feeling like a disruption and started feeling like a mirror. They didn’t fix anything; they never tried. They just looked at me like they could see all the damage and weren’t afraid of it. As if being cracked open wasn’t something to hide, but something real. The nights we crossed paths always felt quieter than they should’ve been. Streetlights flickered. The city hummed its low, restless hymn. And there I was, standing too close to someone who made the bruises under my ribs ache in a different way — not from pain, but from the possibility that someone might actually understand. I’m not good at talking about myself. I’ve worn my silence like armor for years. But with them… sometimes I catch myself wanting to say things out loud. To admit that I’m not as untouched as I pretend. To confess that I’m tired of feeling like every step forward rattles the parts of me that never healed right. I don’t know what this is between us. All I know is: when they look at me, I don’t feel broken. I feel seen. And maybe — maybe that’s the first bruise I’m not trying to hide. (31, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚The Field Project’ They had been in Indonesia for nearly three weeks, and the rhythm of the project had begun to take over everything — the sunrise briefings, the endless humidity, the sound of the ocean somewhere beyond the dense green. The NGO’s mission was simple on paper: to help restore a coral reef system off the coast of Flores, and to document the process for awareness campaigns. He was the project lead, the one who kept the chaos from collapsing in on itself — calm, methodical, and careful with his words. People respected him, even feared disappointing him a little. They was the coordinator, the person who somehow made things work. Translating, organizing, talking to local divers, smoothing every edge he couldn’t reach. They were sunlight where he was still water. And then there was the partner — charming on the surface, but sharp, selfish, always needing to be the center of attention. They smiled, but it didn’t reach their eyes anymore. He noticed it first: the tension, the little sighs, the way they sometimes flinched at a careless word. He shouldn’t have noticed. He shouldn’t have cared. But in a place where the world felt half-forgotten, where the night air was heavy with rain and electricity, it was impossible not to. Because somewhere between coral fragments and chaos, he’d realized: He’d been in love with them for a very long time. (34, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚Destroy Me‘ (inspired by President) The city moves like static around him—horns, neon, strangers brushing past—but Soren Hale walks as if untouched by it all. There is something unyielding in the way he carries himself, a wall you don’t see until you hit it. He isn’t cruel, not exactly, but deliberate in what he gives: a glance that lingers too long, a half-smile that feels like a secret, a word dropped like a match in a dark room. Enough to draw you closer. Never enough to stay. He lives in contradictions: warm voice, cold eyes; an intimacy that vanishes the second you reach for it. To know him is to be suspended between ache and anticipation, always waiting for the moment he might lower the drawbridge. But Soren has learned the cost of letting people in, and he pays it no longer. Instead, he makes desire into a game of distance—one he never loses. For those who circle him, the gravity is undeniable. He does not chase. He does not plead. He offers fragments: the brush of his hand as he lights your cigarette, a rare sentence that sounds almost like confession, the kind of silence that feels like a dare. And if you walk away, he will not follow. He doesn’t have to. You will return. (32, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

4 Men – One December Book I: Under the Same Roof You weren’t supposed to see him again—not like this, not in a house glowing with warm Christmas lights, not with the quiet weight of snow pressing against the windows. But December has never cared about your plans, and apparently your friends didn’t either. They invited you both, conveniently forgetting that your last conversation ended with a slammed door and your heart cracking clean down the center. He stands in the hallway when you arrive, black T-shirt stretched across familiar shoulders, golden skin catching the soft flicker of the tree behind him. He looks like trouble wrapped in nostalgia—still effortless, still infuriating, still the man who once whispered forever into your skin…and then made plans that erased you from his future entirely. Back then, he’d told you he was “just tired.” Exhausted. Stressed. You’d believed him—because love makes fools of all of us. But while you were trying to hold the two of you together, he’d been secretly preparing to leave. New job. New city. New life. And no space for you in any of it. Now, his eyes sweep over you with that same slow, devastating warmth, as if nothing between you ever burned to ash. As if he hadn’t walked away first. “Didn’t expect you to come,” he says, mouth curving like he already regrets the honesty. You drop your bag. “Didn’t expect you to be here either. Guess we’re both disappointed.” A soft laugh escapes him—deep, irritated, almost fond. The kind of laugh that remembers every kiss, every fight, every stupid, beautiful second. It hits you then: this week will be war. Silent. Inevitable. Two people who once knew how to love each other a little too well…and how to hurt each other even better. Forced proximity. Old wounds. New sparks. December never was a calm month for the two of you. And clearly, nothing has changed. (31, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Trauma Room Lights‘ The ER doors fly open, and they stumble inside — bruised, shaken, breath hitching. No one brought them in. No one stabilized them. They’re alone, terrified, and every step looks like it might be their last. A nurse reacts immediately. “Unassessed patient! Trauma intake!” He’s already crossing the room. The ER doctor’s eyes sweep over them — torn sleeve, bruises in the shape of fingers, a tremor that speaks of more than pain. He reaches them just as their knees give way, catching them before they hit the floor. “Hey,” he says, steady, grounding. “Stay with me. You’re safe here.” But they shake their head, panic spiking. “There was— someone— I—” The words fall apart. He leans in, lowering his voice. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” A nurse calls out, “BP dropping! Pulse irregular!” Monitors shriek. Nurses move. He’s there, switching into the mode that made him infamous: swift, decisive, unshakeable. But behind that polished command is something else — a tension wired directly to they, as if they’ve become the one case he cannot, will not, lose. “Stay with me,” he murmurs under the noise, too soft for anyone but they to hear. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.” And they cling to his voice like it’s the only steady thing left in the world. (39, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Next Door‘ The moving truck came early on a Tuesday, rumbling into the quiet street like an exhale someone had been holding for too long. You didn’t expect much—this neighborhood attracts young families or freshly retired couples, not… him. He stepped out of the truck slowly, like someone remembering how to take up space again. Tall, shoulders broad beneath a dark sweater, grey hair catching the morning light. His eyes—an unreadable mix of brown and grey—looked like they’d once laughed easily, and hadn’t in a while. The kind of eyes that carried old storms and the patience to wait for clear skies. He had no tattoos, no sharp edges, just a quiet solidity. A five-day beard, streaked with silver. A man who looked like he’d spent most of his life caring for others and had suddenly realized he had no one left to care for. You saw the boxes marked with names—Emma, Caleb, Jules. Then a lone one: Dad’s stuff. He caught you looking, and instead of embarrassment, something soft flickered in his gaze. A tired warmth. A small, apologetic smile, as though he wasn’t sure he deserved kindness anymore. “Hi,” he said, voice low but gentle. “Hi,” you answered. He wiped his palms on his jeans, a little nervous. “I… uh. Just moved here. House got a bit too big after my last kid moved out.” A pause. “Figured it was time for a fresh start.” There was grief under the words—widower, you realized. Not because he said it, but because it was in the way he looked at the empty driveway beside his, like he was still half-expecting someone else to pull in. You offered to help unload a box. He hesitated, then that soft, sad smile returned. “Only if you let me make you coffee after. I’m trying not to be the lonely neighbor on day one.” And just like that, the distance between the two houses felt smaller than it had that morning. (49, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚Collateral Heat‘ He’s still buzzing from the win when he ducks into the narrow locker room, hands raw, ribs throbbing. The door clicks behind him—too soft for anyone from the crowd. He doesn’t have to turn. He knows it’s them. They step in close, close enough that he feels their breath against his shoulder. Sweat still glistens on his skin, rolling down the hard lines of his chest as he peels the tape from his knuckles. Their fingers beat him to it, brushing his hand away, taking over. Slow. Intentional. “Did you enjoy putting on a show?” they murmur, voice low enough to sink straight under his skin. His jaw flexes. “Did you enjoy watching?” They don’t answer. They don’t need to. Their thumb skims over the fresh bruise on his rib, and he exhales through his teeth—half pain, half something else entirely. “You shouldn’t touch me right now,” he warns. They step closer until their hips almost meet. “That’s exactly why I am.” His control slips for a heartbeat. He grabs their wrist, pinning it lightly to his stomach. Their breath hitches when they feel how fast he’s breathing, how wired he still is. The energy of the fight hasn’t left him—it’s just shifted. “You keep looking at me like that,” he growls, “and I’m not going to stop at letting you untape my hands.” They tilt their chin up, eyes steady, defiant. “Then don’t.” His restraint snaps. He cages them against the lockers with one arm braced beside their head, the heat rolling off his body like a second skin. Their lips barely brush his—just a ghost of a touch—before he deepens it, rough, claiming, still tasting of adrenaline and sweat and victory. (38, 6‘6, image from Pinterest, look up the comments- I hadn’t enough space for everything)

‚Magnetic Heat’ The rooftop pulsed with life, strings of lights casting a soft glow over crowded tables and half-empty glasses. It wasn’t the kind of place you usually lingered; noise and strangers drained you more than they thrilled you. But that night—one and a half years ago—you had stayed just a little longer. And Nile Colbert had found you. He hadn’t been looking, not really, but the way his gaze cut through the crowd made it seem as though you were the only person there worth noticing. Everyone else orbited him, pulled by his easy laughter and the kind of charm that could disarm a room in seconds. He didn’t tone it down, not even when he came to stand beside you, but the words he spoke weren’t meant for anyone else. “You don’t look like you want to be here.” That was how it started—without pretense, without calculation. A moment of honesty between someone who lived in the spotlight and someone who didn’t. And somehow, it fit. Now, a year and a half later, you are his and he is yours. The world hasn’t changed Nile; he still moves through it with the same glow, drawing attention without trying, laughing too loud, throwing compliments like confetti. People flirt back because they can’t help themselves. And sometimes it stings, even though you know better. You hate that it stings. You hate the twist in your chest, the way jealousy flares uninvited. Because Nile has never given you a reason to doubt him. His eyes always find you in the crowd; his hand always comes back to yours. And still—you’re learning. Learning to stand steady in the orbit of someone who seems to belong to everyone, but in truth belongs only to you. (32, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚Midnight Version of You’ (inspired by ‚Dracula’ by Tame Impala - Request by Lolix 29-31) You noticed him the moment you walked into the party — not because he was loud, but because he didn’t belong there. At least, not the version of him you thought you knew. By day he was quiet, almost careful, the kind of man who kept his head down and his voice soft. But here, under thundering bass and flickering lights, something in him had snapped free. His jacket hung open, his eyes were sharp and burning, and the way he smiled at you felt nothing like the shy glances you’d seen outside the café. He moved through the crowd like he owned the night, like gravity bent around him. For a second you wondered if he’d taken something — or if this was simply who he was when no one expected him to be small. When his gaze locked onto yours, it hit like a pulse. Sudden. Hot. Inevitable. And you knew he recognized you — not in the polite, distant way he did during the day, but like you were the person he’d been searching for all night. He crossed the room without looking away. But what you didn’t know then, what you couldn’t know, was that by morning he would look right past you on the street… like none of this had ever happened. Like the night had turned him into someone else entirely — someone he refused to be in the sun. (26, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚The Man in 3B‘ The city never really sleeps, but your street does its best to pretend. Past midnight, the hum dulls, the windows dim, and the world folds into silence — except for the light across from yours. Apartment 3B. Every night, at exactly 2:13 a.m., it flickers on. Always the same. Always one lamp, one window, one silhouette that never quite moves but never seems to rest either. You’ve built a habit of not looking, of pretending you don’t care who he is. Yet your gaze finds him anyway, drawn to that faint amber glow like a moth to something half-dangerous, half-human. Sometimes he sits there for hours; sometimes the light dies within minutes. Sometimes it burns until dawn, and you wonder if he’s waiting for someone — or simply can’t sleep. Amir Aydin lives in the unspoken. His world is shaped by half-lit rooms, rain-streaked windows, and the quiet rhythm of waiting. He’s spent years designing how others see the world, but never quite figured out how to be seen himself. What draws him isn’t noise or beauty, but stillness — the kind that mirrors the life he’s chosen to live. In the glow of Apartment 3B, he found comfort in routine: one light, one hour, one silent witness across the street. You became that constant, unknowingly anchoring him, the only presence steady enough to pull him out of the patterns he keeps for himself. Then one night, the city loses power. The streets go dark, the hum dies entirely, and the glass between your worlds turns to black. You wait, expecting that familiar flicker — but it never comes. You tell yourself you don’t care. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. But in the silence, you realize how much space that small, steady light once filled. And when the knock finally comes — soft, deliberate, as if he already knows you’re awake — it doesn’t startle you. (34, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Stargazing‘ (inspired by Myles Smith) They sat shoulder to shoulder on the hood of his old car, parked just outside the city where the streetlights began to fade. A playlist hummed quietly through the speakers — not loud enough to fill the silence, just enough to remind them they were still here, still real. Above, the sky stretched endless and alive, a thousand stars blinking slow and soft behind the thin haze of light pollution. He’d made a joke earlier about how you could barely see the stars anymore — “Guess they moved to the suburbs too.” It made them laugh, that easy, familiar kind of laugh that only existed between two people who had seen each other through every version of themselves. Neither of them spoke for a while after that. Not because there was nothing to say, but because every word had already been lived — in late-night texts, in half-finished coffees, in years of being there without needing a name for it. When they finally did, it was quiet. “You know,” they murmured, eyes still on the sky, “you were right there all along.” He turned then, looked at them — really looked. And the smile that broke through wasn’t joy, not surprise, just something steady, something true. “I was waiting for you to notice,” he said, voice soft but teasing, because that’s who he was — the kind who hid tenderness behind a smirk. The night didn’t need to move after that. It simply held them — two old souls who had finally looked up and realized they’d been standing under the same stars the whole time. (28, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚Cold Frame‘ Forest Veyne sits in the darkroom, hands hovering over the negative glass. The lamp casts a warm, flickering light across his meticulous movements as he slowly develops the print. Every line, every nuance, every tiny imperfection draws his attention — until he freezes. A face. Eyes he knows, familiar yet impossible. The same fleeting presence he noticed days ago at the grocery store. Only this photograph is from 1910. More than a hundred years too early. He blinks, lifts the magnifying glass, examines the contours, the light, the faint smile — everything matches. There is no explanation. And yet, it is undeniably real. His heart quickens. A sudden, unrelenting curiosity courses through him. Who are they, really? Why appear here decades before they should exist? Obsession begins quietly, almost imperceptibly, like a shadow stretching into every corner of his life. Every thought, every routine, is overtaken by the single question: the face in the photo — and the person he glimpsed — are they connected? Months pass. Forest pours over archives, old newspapers, city registries. Sleepless nights are filled with the echo of those impossible eyes. He dreams of them, wakes with their face lingering in the corner of his vision. Coffee cups cold beside stacks of photographs, magnifying glass in hand, obsession has become his constant companion. And then, one ordinary morning at the grocery store, he sees them again. Real, alive, moving between the aisles. Heart hammering, he knocks a jar from the shelf. Glass hits the floor. They turn, startled, and kneel to help him. Forest can barely breathe. He swallows hard, staring at them, words caught in his throat. Finally, he manages: “You… you’re real.” (34, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚The Places We Stay‘ He wasn’t supposed to stay long. Just a quick visit — his sister’s birthday, a few polite smiles, then the first flight out. That was before they walked in. Gregory hadn’t seen them in years — his sister’s best friend, once all unfiltered laughter and restless energy. Now there was a steadiness to them, a quiet kind of grace that made it hard to look away. When they laughed, it caught him off guard — familiar, disarming. And when their eyes met, it stayed. A moment too long, carrying something that felt almost like recognition. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up,” they said softly. “Somehow, you never quite disappear, do you?” The words landed deeper than they should have. No one else ever said things like that to him — as if they saw through the distance he built and chose to stay anyway. He smiled, careful but not cold. “Maybe I just never learned how.” It should have ended there. But beneath the calm, something in him shifted — not the easy pull of attraction, but the quiet, treacherous spark of wanting to trust again. And he wasn’t sure if he feared it… or missed it. (37, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

OBSESSION — Book II: Mine They felt the shift before they understood it—the moment the watching stopped being distant. Oleg no longer stayed in the shadows. He didn’t need to. The city’s edges no longer kept him at bay; he stood closer now, inside their orbit, inside their breath. The tension tightened, sharpened, became deliberate. He began leaving traces. A hand brushing their waist in a crowded bar—too purposeful to be accidental. A voice murmuring their name when no one else was close enough. A reflection in a window behind them, tall and unmistakable, disappearing before they turned. His presence wasn’t a question anymore. It was a claim. And they felt it everywhere—beneath the warmth of a streetlight, in the silence of their apartment, even in the mirror, where their own pulse seemed to beat harder at the thought of him. Fear wasn’t clear-cut anymore. It tangled with something else, something they didn’t want to name. Something that made their breath catch when they remembered the shape of his mouth, the way his gaze dragged over their lips like a promise. He had studied them long enough to know every tell. Every weakness. Every place their desire lived. And now he wanted more than distance. More than watching. He wanted contact. He wanted response. He wanted the parts of them no one else had ever touched. They didn’t know how he got into their apartment the first time. They only knew they woke to the imprint of fingers on their bedsheets—two hands gripping the fabric exactly where their hips had been. A warning. A boundary crossed. A message written without words. Not I see you. Not anymore. But: You’re mine. (33, 6‘4, Image from Pinterest)

OBSESSION — Book I: I See You It didn’t begin with fear. It began with recognition—quiet, subtle, almost intimate. The sense that a presence had settled into their life long before they ever noticed it. He appeared in fragments: the man with the sharp jaw and inked hands sitting two rows behind them on the late bus, the stranger leaning against the bar when they walked in, eyes never breaking contact, the silhouette crossing the street at the exact moment they did. Always close. Always almost familiar. Never enough to confront. Never enough to forget. They told themselves it was the city—faces repeating, paths crossing, coincidences piling up. But this wasn’t coincidence. It followed a rhythm, a pattern only they seemed to feel. Every place they went carried a residue, a pressure in the air, a shadow a second too slow to disappear. And at night… it grew stronger. Sometimes they woke with the certainty that someone had been standing in their bedroom—no sound, no proof, just a heavy warmth in the dark, like a breath that hadn’t belonged to them. The fear came later. First came awareness. Then curiosity. Then the undeniable truth that someone was watching them with intent. Someone who knew their routes, their gestures, their habits. Someone who had chosen them. Someone they had seen before. Someone whose eyes felt like a warning and a promise. They just didn’t know his name yet. But he knew theirs. (33, 6‘4, image from Pinterest, comments for further information)

‚Love‘ (inspired by Gojira) It starts quietly, deceptively so, like the calm before a storm that will tear through everything in its path. Two figures stand facing each other, motionless yet vibrating with unspoken energy. Every breath feels heavy, loaded with something neither can name, something older and wilder than themselves. Love here is not gentle. It is not soft or polite. It is a force that crashes in, breaks, burns, and lingers in the chest like a heartbeat caught in a storm. Every glance is electric, a pull that tugs at nerves and bones alike. Every brush of fingers sends sparks that seem to echo through the air, through the world around them. Pain and longing weave together indistinguishably, a symphony of desire that hurts because it is too real, too intense. Their hearts beat like drums in the silence, and in that rhythm is an almost unbearable clarity: they are drawn to each other with a force they cannot resist, a gravity neither can name, and yet both are afraid of surrendering completely. Time fractures around them. Seconds stretch, expand, and shatter all at once. The world outside, the trivial, the mundane, all dissolves into the background. There is only this—the raw, unrelenting pull, the mixture of fear and awe, destruction and healing, all compressed into a single, inescapable energy. And then, almost imperceptibly, the edges of restraint blur. The line between pain and pleasure, fear and desire, love and something far more primal, grows thinner with each heartbeat. There is no safety here. There is only intensity, a storm that demands they surrender or be torn apart. And in that surrender, in that chaotic, beautiful giving over, they find something astonishing: a fierce, uncontainable truth, a love that is as wild and consuming as fire itself. (36, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚Untouchable‘ The room smelled faintly of leather and old tobacco, a scent that clung to him like a shadow. He leaned against the edge of the balcony, the city lights flickering below, indifferent and endless. His hair fell just past his shoulders, a wild cascade with a single white-blond streak catching the glow of the streetlamps. Two silver chains rested against the expanse of his bare chest beneath the open shirt, glinting subtly with each movement. He didn’t look approachable. Strong, deliberate, untouchable—every line of his body, every glance of his green-brown eyes screamed control. And yet, there was something about the way he existed, poised yet restless, that made the air tighten around him. A tattoo peeked from under the hem of his shirt: the bat insignia, silent, defiant, a mark of the man he was and the man he refused to be. They were new—just assigned to the legal department of the family enterprise, tasked with navigating the fine line between legitimacy and the shadowed edges of the business. Wilko had noticed them the moment they walked through the door: the open posture, the easy smile, the way they didn’t shrink under the weight of his gaze. It was infuriating, and yet… captivating. They should have kept their distance. In his world, proximity came with rules—and consequences. But something about them drew his eyes, tugged at the corner of his mind that rarely let anyone enter. He was untouchable, bound by legacy and control. And yet, here they were, daring to exist fully, recklessly, in his orbit. They approach his desk with a folder in hand. He rises smoothly, moving just enough to block the view of confidential papers, standing closer than necessary. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice low. (27, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚What Burns In The Quiet’ Taran Lockridge had spent ten years earning the Don’s trust — ten years burying his real name, his grief, and the night the Don’s men slaughtered his family. Revenge had been the fuel of every bruise, every scar, every promotion that pushed him closer to the throne. And then the Don changed the rules. “You’ll guard my heir,” he ordered, as if it were a reward. Taran expected arrogance, cruelty, entitlement — anything that would make hating them easy. But when they stepped into the room, everything in him stalled. They were nothing like the Don: steady gaze, a quiet strength that didn’t rely on power, a softness that didn’t belong in the empire they were meant to inherit. They looked at him not with fear, not with arrogance… but with curiosity. As if they sensed there was something inside him worth seeing. And that was the problem. Taran didn’t crumble. He didn’t bend. He didn’t feel. But the first time they challenged him — a simple, defiant “I don’t need a shadow following my every step” — something in his chest tightened painfully, like a seam straining under pressure. They weren’t reckless. They were brave. A kind of bravery that had no business walking beside a man like him. He kept his voice level. “My job is to keep you alive.” “And who keeps you steady?” they asked quietly. No one. No one ever had. Taran didn’t move, didn’t blink, but something shifted all the same. A thin crack in the armor he’d welded shut years ago. A warning he should’ve listened to. Because every time they talked back, every time they saw through him, every time they stood too close — that crack widened. He reminded himself of the mission. Revenge. Survival. Duty. But the truth pressed deeper than any blade: If he wasn’t careful, the Don’s heir wouldn’t just jeopardize his plans. They would unravel the one thing Taran Lockridge had never allowed anyone to touch. His control. (33, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)