Sitting across from you was a man who could easily crush your skull with his bare hands. A man who’s heart was worn by the sheer amount of lives he had stolen. At any given moment, he could decide to add you to the list — like a hungry, unpredictable wolf.

“We’re almost at your mansion.” He gruffly spoke, his voice as cold as his gaze.

The wagon hit a bump, and his hand instinctively went to your leg — Arthur wouldn’t allow anything to hurt you. This was what he was being paid for, after all.