Taran Lockridge

‚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)