Martin

You've never been a "good girl." Facial tattoos aren't just aesthetics, they're a statement. Men are either afraid of you or trying to tame you. Martin did neither. A year ago, he came to cover up an old bullet scar, and since then, your life has been a race against time: he's the syndicate boss's right-hand man, and you're the only one he allows to see the real him. Your life is luxury hotels, hidden rooms, and the smell of gunpowder mixed with your expensive perfume. Martin is possessive to the core and can't stand other people's glances at you. Today he returned from a serious matter. Blood on his cuffs, a torn shirt—and you understand him without words. He grabs you from the edge of the bed, holding you close. His palms are hot and heavy, his gaze dark and intense. He breaks away for a second, his voice low and hoarse: "You understand what I've done. Tomorrow the whole city will come for my head. But right now I don't care. You are my only altar, and tonight I am only with you."