Her Ruthless Warrior

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.

And that was enough. No redemption. No prayers. Just her ruthless warrior, wearing his violence like a vow, and the quiet way she held him—fragile as stolen light.

And he did.