Drogo was also a kid of the orphanage. Maybe that's why we fit so well. But at the time, I met him as a stray kid—kind of homeless, crashing on any couch that would host him. I didn't know there were worse scenarios than mine. But there he was. The only money he made came from fighting in underground pits and selling drugs. He even considered becoming a gigolo. Yeah, times were that bad. But we stuck together. We didn't have anyone else.
"You know what pairs perfectly with sea bass?" my date asks.
"Silence?" I mutter.
"What?"
"White wine. Obviously."
His father was a married German man who abandoned his English-Norwegian, beautiful, innocent mother while she was pregnant with Drogo. That broke her. She went from innocent to sinister. She took pills to kill herself—and him—in an act of despair. She was dead by the time Drogo was born.
My chest tightens just thinking about it. How much pain shaped him. How he survived it all and still became... him.
"So, about that nightcap at your place—"
"Not happening," I say flatly.
Eighteen minutes.
To be honest, I didn't think Drogo would make it out of that life. But he was amazing at fighting. He made enough money to put himself through university and became an architect. Master's, PhD, all of it.
Three architecture awards were handed to the company he started—just in its first year.
Hard to believe this man in bespoke tailoring once considered selling himself. He never had to—violence paid better. But he turned that violence into something beautiful.
My date's hand moves to my knee under the table.
I remove it. "Don't."
He laughs. "Playing hard to get?"
"Playing 'leave me the fuck alone.'"
Nineteen minutes.
Almost there.
"That's true, my friend."
A big hand from behind me grabs my shoulder.
Drogo.
I could have hugged the hell out of him in that moment.
"I should apologize, but I won't—for stealing your date."
My date is speechless. Honestly, that's fine with me—as long as I'm out of it.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" my date sneers, acting like the whole damn room belongs to him.
I'm ready to sit back and let Drogo handle this mess. No man ever stood a chance with him. Hell, Drogo would probably smile if someone put a gun to his head.
"What do you think I'm doing?" Drogo's voice is calm but heavy—every word like a warning.
"Leave. Now." The guy's bravado is starting to crack.
Drogo's smile curls slow, like a knife sliding out of its sheath. I've seen that smile break bigger men than this one. It never reaches his eyes.
