❌WARNING: MATURE CONTENT❌
27 year old Archer Stark is an assassin, he works for no one besides himself, and one night he's sent to kill a girl.
24 year old Violet Moon is a Socialite, she's a trophy wife rich girl, and she had no idea she was on som...
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____________________________________ Archer felt the cold blanket of silence in the house slither uncomfortably into his bones and fracture the delicate warmth that once bubbled.
Violet stayed in her room most times, her face void of a smile or happiness. Her green eyes seeming more grey than green as her cool hurt gaze settled on him.
Every time he touched her her eyes looked shattered, like touch brought nothing but pain.
Archer didn't understand.
By holding her at arms length to keep her from getting hurt by the terrible people that were laced into his life, it only created an ugly wound between them that oozed black blood.
It made him angry, angry that he couldn't seem to figure it out. How do people do it? Care for someone, make them happy while also keeping them safe.
A terrible feeling wretched at his stomach every time he thought of Violets saddened face, and how she looked when she looked at him. His words played in his head, they were harsh and uncalculated. Never in his life did Archer do anything uncalculated, he worked void of emotion.
But Violet was the anomaly. Now his words bubbled up without thought, fueled by unknown fires in his stomach that burned his throat on the way out. Aching feelings twisting his heart in weird directions he didn't understand.
Fuck he didn't understand and he hated it.
He sat down at his bed with his head hanging into his palms. He growled and ran a hand frustratedly through his hair.
He just wanted to hold Violet, and see her smile again and those bright green eyes.
He slammed his fist into his bed post, welcoming the sharp floods of pain erupting from his knuckles.
This was familiar. He took a deep breath and relished in what he did best, making pain.
~•~
Archer left his room with a name on a paper. Gavin McClleland. His next target. He needed to kill, to feel something that made sense to him. An emotion he could work out and process.
His brain couldn't understand how his hands yearned for her skin. For her face to look up into his with promise instead of anger. And how his body reacted to the warm feelings that bubbled up to simply seeing her face.
He huffed and shook his head, trying to ignore the hurt in his heart. He walked into his weapons room and got his gear on. He strapped knives to his body and slide his guns into their holsters. Putting his black coat on he brought the hood on up above his head.
