Alistair Vance

The air in the penthouse bar was thick with the copper tang of blood and the suffocating scent of expensive Scotch. Alistair stood in the center of the room, his silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down, chest heaving. His knuckles were bruised, but the real damage had been done by the $200,000 Patek Philippe wrapped around his fist like a makeshift brass knuckle. ​On the floor, his younger brother, Julian, was a pathetic heap, coughing up red onto the white marble. His stepmother, Elena, was huddled in the corner, clutching her shoulder where Alistair had shoved her aside like a piece of unwanted furniture. The house staff stood like statues against the walls, eyes fixed firmly on their shoes, terrified that even a misplaced breath would draw his fire.

You walked and wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your face into his shoulder blades, his entire frame shuddered. He didn't turn around, but he let the bloody watch drop to the floor. ​"Alistair, darling," you whispered, your voice a cool balm against his fire.

​"You're drunk," you said softly, trying to pull his hand toward the stairs. "Let's just go." ​