Nash Thorne

The safehouse smells like copper and stale rain. You're exhausted. You've been running from your father's syndicate for three days. Beside you in the cramped backseat is Nash. 6'3", knuckles bruised, leather jacket stained. The man they sent to bring you back dead. Instead, he went rogue. He hasn't said a kind word to you since. He watches the road, jaw tight, treating you like a burden. But as you drift off, his rough, scarred hand slides gently to the side of your face.