Rugged Gentleman Novels & Stories

“Gentle is a bastard half the time. But he’ll be fine anyway.” “Exactly,” Bobby chimed in. “It’s your day. We’re introducing you as a Belfort. We’ve done the work. You’re official and the DNA proved it. What else does he want?” I didn’t answer, because before I could, the door opened again and Gentle walked in. He had on a charcoal suit which was clean, minimal and sharp. His hair was brushed back neatly, but his face carried that same unreadable expression he always wore around me. Not hate. Not warmth either. Just…something that could define or wrap my head around it exactly.

Amongst the group all together, he was the most trustworthy. He shifted his gaze to Aiden next, who filled his whiskey glass to the brim and practically downed it. There wasn't anything good to say about the Wolf. He's a Rogue. A defiant Alpha. On top of all of that, blood related them to one another. They couldn't be anymore different, though. The man sat with dirty jeans and work boots with a black fitted shirt. Compared to himself, that wore black slacks and a black button up with his black boots. He felt clean compared to Aiden's dirty appearance.

Either way, our conversation came to a screeching halt as he put his hands on the table and leaned so close toward Lana that even I could smell the sharp scent of cheap cologne and whiskey wafting off him. His black hair was an oil slick, combed straight back with way too much pomade. He wore a leather jacket, distressed gray jeans, and heavy lace-up boots. An arrogant expression completed the look. Where Bratt radiated power and dominance, this guy felt like a caricature of machismo. It was almost embarrassing. “Can I help you?” Lana said, leaning away and contorting her face in displeasure. “Maybe,” he said.

His voice was deep and rough, as if he had spent a long time speaking in the harsh and unforgiving wilderness. As he approached, the man's movements were fluid and graceful, as if he had spent his whole life navigating through the dense undergrowth of the woods. His strides were long and confident, and he seemed to be in complete control of his surroundings. Despite his rough and unkempt appearance, there was something about the man that commanded respect. His aura was one of wisdom and experience, and he seemed to have an almost mystical connection to the natural world around him. “What are you even saying?” Gasher spilled, worried that his pessimism would make Zen more agitated.

So I kept my hands to myself and stayed silent, praying that these men, who looked so much older and more… rugged than I’d imagined, wouldn’t just attack. “You’re breaching territory,” one of the two who’d stepped in front of us called from his position twenty feet down the road. Clearly the leader of this bunch, he stepped forward slightly without looking at the others. I guessed he was about thirty. He wore work boots and jeans, a thick thermal shirt that clung to his clearly very muscular and athletic body, and some kind of flack jacket or something over that. “I’m here for the Alpha,” Rig said. I was surprised by the emotionless tone he used. I’d expected his growl, or… I don’t know, som

He wore a white muslin shirt with ruffles on the frontal view and have high collar on its neck, reaching the chin when starched and standing up. The valet then topped it with a dark tailcoat having a waist-length cut in the front but continued up to the back of the knee. His lower body was adorned with a personally tailored pantaloon. Finally to complete the gentlemanly rugged look, he paired it with a polished tall boots extending mid calf, presenting him both as a noble and as a rake all together, with a devilish smirk plastered on his face. He rarely comes to the palace at least once and twice a year if necessary as he was far cry not the best amongst his fellow lordships with his indiffe

A towering figure, tall and massive, walked with an air of intimidation. The man's physique was imposing, muscles straining against the fabric of his dark shirt. His skin was a tapestry of scars and tattoos, each one telling a story of a life lived on the fringes of society. This was Macho, a man known for his brutality and ruthlessness in the criminal underworld.

I know this because I’m following his every movement, and I’m not even sure why. A silver Mercedes-Benz pulls up behind the SUV, and out of it alights a man, not younger than sixty, in a grey suit. The first thing I notice about the newcomer is that he’s fit for a man his age, he stands tall with the aura of a man who shouldn’t be trifled with. His salt and pepper hair and beard are well-groomed, an overall well put man. “Roman,” the man speaks, his face hardened with no life in his eyes. Christian, nonetheless, doesn’t seem to care, as if he knows his anger is greater than whatever the older man must be feeling.

Curiosity piqued, I headed over to investigate. Stein elaborated, "You should absolutely go to this gentleman, Baron. Ragen is a 33-year-old A-ranked mercenary with a solid reputation in this section of the territory. When the Count's soldiers stormed his town, it was alleged that they broke into his home and killed the women who had raised him. He used to be an orphan, but today he has a wife and two children."