She found him in the wreckage of a war he refused to name. Leather cracked, eyes dark as oil spills, and hands that had broken bones now trembling when they touched her cheek. “Don’t fix me,” he warned. She never tried.
And he did.
Instead, she handed him a blade. “Then fight for something worth the blood.” her ruthless warrior rg angel vk
“No,” he’d answer, voice raw as a wound. “I’m yours.”
He was never meant to wear a halo.
He became her ruthless warrior—not because she asked him to be cruel, but because she saw the war inside him and didn’t flinch. Every enemy at her door met a man who had long since stopped believing in mercy. Every whispered threat ended in silence.
VK kept no throne. Only him.
But at night, when the city bled neon and regret, he’d rest his head in her lap, and she’d trace the scar running through his brow like a fallen star. “You’re not an angel,” she’d whisper.