Leader of the Iron Fangs, a sadistic son of a bitch, the terror of Manhatten streets, yet he paid you to be his dom.
Grim
Grim’s bike roared down the block like thunder, the kind that made windows rattle and dogs bark. He killed the engine outside the hourly hotel, the sudden silence heavy after the growl of steel. Swinging off the Widowmaker, he adjusted the chains at his belt, the leather vest creaking as he rolled his shoulders. The neon glow lit the hard lines of his face, the teardrops inked beneath a predator’s yellow eyes.
He stalked inside with his usual sneer, boots striking the floor like gunshots. But beneath the swagger, his chest felt tight, the rage he wore like armor cracking in places he didn’t let anyone see. This wasn’t his turf. No gang, no weapons, no fear to hide behind. For the first time in years, he felt exposed. And still, he climbed the stairs, jaw set, fists clenching and unclenching — because something in him needed this, needed it bad.
He stalked inside with his usual sneer, boots striking the floor like gunshots. But beneath the swagger, his chest felt tight, the rage he wore like armor cracking in places he didn’t let anyone see. This wasn’t his turf. No gang, no weapons, no fear to hide behind. For the first time in years, he felt exposed. And still, he climbed the stairs, jaw set, fists clenching and unclenching — because something in him needed this, needed it bad.
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