Dangerous Affection | Kylo Ren

𝐈𝐕 She's No Angel

004– "Status report." He grumbles hoarsely into the mic of his transmitter.

A chirpy beep indicates that the message had been conveyed. The chime was followed by a heap of brisk static.

"She's walking. Alone." A voice gruffs back.

His toffee, honey-glinted eyes rake over the bleak scenery of the city's midnight drabness. The breeze cold, climate frigid, as it sweeps through the slightly ajar window of his Lambo. His posture was lethargic, demeanor dull, although he beamed twisted satisfaction with each of his oddly steady breaths.

"Good." Kylo grunts in approval, straightening his posture earnestly, stroking his jaw. "You know what to do. Stay low."

He clicked the transmitter off, shoving it into the cubby located in the side of his leather-interiored door. Taking a swig of whiskey from his titanium flask, that was carved ever so diligently with the finest of architecting hands.

The wind howled ominously, billowing through the car that reeked of earthy musk, and sweat, and the coppery scent of blood. Scarlet speckled the crevices, and he sighs, clenching his jaw at the unethical little mess he had unintentionally made. He completely disregarded mindfulness when it came down to collecting the green he immorally tasked to sustain. But, he was typically meticulous enough to avoid messes at any and all costs.

He was distracted.

As if... a diversion of some sort had been wormed into his corrupt brain and planted there. A nick to nack at his insanity. A pry to his immoral conflicts and deranged motives.

Distracted was not his forte. It would take some accommodating, accustoming.

He was primal, yes. And not always the best at sweeping up his messes or suppressing his fiery-red anger. But he was methodical. Calculated. He always had a firm, sagacious approach, despite the overall sloppiness of his cutthroat life-long duties.

Now, there's an imbalance. This diversion was weighing down his consequence, anchoring down his compatibility to commit to his usual acts of evil. In abbreviated words, it was making his job ten-thousand times more difficult. Although he would never admit to it, everyone forced to comply to his "business" alongside him could see the greater toll this enigma was taking on him.

"What's the next move for us, boss?" Kuruk mutters from the backseat, gloved fingers tapping and thudding into his muscular thigh.

"Hold off for now." He says, "I doubt Vic will need back up, but it's not a guarantee."

Kuruk huffs in amusement. "So this must be a feisty one?"

Kylo smirks, taking another nimble swig of whisky from his flask. "She's no angel," he purrs, tone earnest and low. "But she will be mine soon."

***

You were pissed.

An anger festered torridly within you. It grows and swells like a tumor that will never pop, pulsating in your chest. The acts, or lack of acts, mustered by Kylo Ren left a hefty mark and emblem of betrayal upon your fragmented ego.

You stagger across the grimy cement in your heels, nearly buckling at the stumbly movement. The bliss, and adrenaline, and intoxication of alcohol, have yet to be disposed from your merely functioning system.

Dry patches of crimson loitered on your jawline, flaking on your now dismembered earlobe. Bruises lingered on your flesh in purple and yellow blemishes from his vice grip. The proof of your carnal treason imprinted upon your skin. The copper of blood and the bawdy-salt of cum still muddled on your tongue.