Dante

My moral compass is broken. That’s why I need rules. They keep me from killing people I shouldn’t. They keep me from crossing certain lines. I’m possessive. Obsessive. Deviant. And I like to fight.

That’s what I see in Tristan when I spot him working in the swanky nightclub. His cool detachment is a mask. He’s angry, he’s lost, and he’s totally new to what he’s feeling.

I want to feel that anger. I want it to burn me. I want him to fight me—then I want to feel him submit. He won’t have any choice, not in my play room. He would look perfect there on the black sheets … with red blooming across his creamy skin.