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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.
“No,” he’d answer, voice raw as a wound. “I’m yours.”
VK kept no throne. Only him.
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.
He became her ruthless warrior—not because she asked him to be cruel, but because she saw the war inside him and didn’t flinch. Every enemy at her door met a man who had long since stopped believing in mercy. Every whispered threat ended in silence.
He was never meant to wear a halo.
Her Ruthless Warrior
Instead, she handed him a blade. “Then fight for something worth the blood.”
They called him RG—just the letters, sharp and hollow, like the echo of a gunshot. To the underworld, he was a ghost with bloody knuckles. To her, he was the angel who forgot how to pray.
She found him in the wreckage of a war he refused to name. Leather cracked, eyes dark as oil spills, and hands that had broken bones now trembling when they touched her cheek. “Don’t fix me,” he warned. She never tried.
And he did.