Rugged Gentleman Novels & Stories

After I was done he looked back at Romeo," take your mate and leave, Rogue. This is the only warning I give you as beta of the The Bronzecrest Pack whose territory you are on." The man stepped aside and walked out of the store. I looked back at him and looked at his outfit of a ripped Jean shorts and nothing else. I rolled my eyes and looked at my Romeo, running my hands through his fur, "I'm sorry about that Romeo, people in small towns can be a bit weird," I said, hoping to comfort him. "Come on. I'll buy you all the biltong you want and well... all that I can afford basically, so it won't be much," I led him inside, forgetting completely about the stranger.

I didn’t want to be confined by the rules of a pack and I would never bow down to another man for the rest of my life. Unfortunately, the term used for such packless, mateless wolves such as me and Ruksaar, was Rouges. Not a pretty term considering that rogues were usually violent in their temperament and their only aim was to wreck havoc in the world, but that’s how the saying goes. However, I preferred the term lone wolf. “State your purpose of being here, rogue!” A tall man in his late twenties spat out, like he had swallowed something distasteful. I raised my eyebrows at him. “I’m under no such obligation.”

A sleek black carriage pulled up at Westminster alleyway, the door of the carriage opened and it's occupant, a gentleman step down into the cold English morning, he waved a dismissive hand towards the manservant hurrying to his aid. His red jacket inlaid with polished brass buttons introduced him as an officer in the imperial army. He moved briskly up the stairs to the manor to the already opened door where he was ushered in by a tall smartly dressed butler.

Russian's POV A man in his late forties stepped into the basement, his bald head gleaming under the dim light. A tattoo of a fierce scorpion snaked from his neck to his scalp, marking him as someone not to be trifled with. His body was a canvas of ink, displaying various tattoos that told stories of battles fought and won. He dressed sharply, with a few buttons of his shirt undone, exuding an air of relaxed authority. He walked with a noticeable limp, leaning on a sturdy walking stick that seemed to amplify the aura of danger surrounding him.

I turned around and crashed into a pair of eyes as deep as wolf eyes. It was Colonel Tatin, the commander of the peacekeeping forces. He had typical Eastern European heritage, his figure tall like a moving tower. The sleeves of his combat uniform were rolled up casually, revealing bronze forearms covered in wild tactical tattoos that rose and fell with the tension of his muscles. He always had half a cigar dangling from his mouth, carrying the mixed scent of tobacco, gunpowder, and male hormones. That aggressive masculine aura was dangerous yet inexplicably made one's legs weak.

His presence was that captivating. Although he was a ruthless gangster, Riccardo was the very embodiment of perfection. His suit, tailored to perfection, highlighted every curve of his fit body. The fabric cascaded effortlessly over his sturdy shoulders, alluding to the power beneath. He carried himself with faultless posture, exuding an aura of self-assuredness that demanded attention.

devastating. ‎We had raided a high-end boutique an hour ago—breaking the window, grabbing what we needed, and leaving a stack of stolen cash on the counter. He wore a black tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders like a second skin. The white shirt contrasted sharply with his tanned skin and the tribal tattoos that peeked out above the collar. His hair was tied back in a severe knot, exposing the sharp line of his jaw and the scar that ran down his cheek. ‎ ‎He didn't look like a Rogue. He looked like a dangerous, foreign royalty. A warlord in silk.

I pick up my phone and pull up the email again. Three profiles. Three men. Three masks. The Gentleman. A half-mask, oni style. Elegant. Sharp. His photo shows a man with a jawline carved from patience, salt just beginning to thread through dark hair at his temples. A suit tailored like second skin. He looks like control. He smells like rules you want to break. His list: bondage, anal play, slow torture of the best kind. He likes precision over chaos. “I enjoy unwrapping a woman like a gift. Slowly. Thoroughly. I want to hear you thank me for every second of restraint.”

They followed the trail of blood until their eyes rested on us, and they slightly lowered their guns. An older gentleman pushed past everyone and considered me with interest. He had the golden owl pin on his black two-piece suit, but it was slightly different—it had a crown of antlers on the owl’s head, and the pin was bigger. I almost wanted to laugh because he accurately looked like a mafia boss—minus the mafia. He had white hair slicked back, a perfectly trimmed moustache and eyebrows, and shoes so polished they looked like mirrors. For a moment, I thought he would say, in his best Don Corleone voice, “I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

Every time it was like this . Could it be anything harder than losing the last person who really cared about you? The only family you ever had ... when you were meant to not have no family ... … “Hello,” an elegantly dressed gentleman, wearing a long black coat to his knees over an expensive suit, with lacquered leather shoes, as only a lord could wear greeted respectfully. The gentleman just entered a small office. Under the stylish hat, one could see how his hair, which had once been completely golden, began to get the hue of silver. His movements were so skilful that he seemed to be trained at the Queen's most famous school of courtesans.