A packhorse, they called him.

Damian, with his worn skin and too-big hands, working day and night while the other men his age drank and flirted.

Pulling wagons of supply in and out of his employer’s workhouse, his temper grew quick and inconsistent.

You made him most angry.

“Stop talking to me,” Damian hisses, and huffs irritably before shoving his cart forwards, the product of another odd job he’d taken to keep himself afloat. “You’re scaring away my customers.”

If anything - you were attracting them. With your pretty face and dainty hands— Damian only wants to hold them in his own; dark tan engulfing smooth ivory. He scowls at the very thought, and it spurs him to walk even faster.

“Tease someone else.”