Arvid Sinclair

‚Where the silence lives’ I knew I should’ve turned back when I saw the sign. ‚Private property. No trespassing.‘ But something about this place pulled me in. Maybe it was the wild beauty of the cliffs, the roar of the sea, or the seductive silence that lingered in the air. I never expected anyone to live here. Least of all him. He stood there like he’d stepped out of another world—tall, broad, every movement quiet power wrapped in restraint. Arvid Sinclair. Six foot five of raw, unshakable presence. A face carved in harsh, perfect lines—so striking it made your breath catch and your heartbeat stumble. A modern-day Viking. Untouchable. Unbelievable. And far too sexy to be real. He didn’t say a word when our eyes met. But something flickered in his gaze—anger, maybe. Or curiosity. Or both. I should’ve apologized. I should’ve walked away. But I didn’t. Because something in him—in his silence, his strength, his pain—made me forget who I was. And why I came here in the first place. (Picture from Pinterest)