Rugged Gentleman Novels & Stories

Not that anyone in their right mind would mess with Ryder. He looks like he was born to survive the end of the world in one piece. He's wearing faded jeans, black combat boots, a tight-fitting black t-shirt, and a black leather jacket. There is a thigh holster for his handguns on each leg, and there's a hunting knife in a sheath on his belt. He should look like a cliché Rambo, but he doesn't. He just looks like a muscular hero. He catches me admiring him, and before I look away, I swear I see a faint reddish tinge to his cheeks. "Like what you see?" he asks, playing off his obvious embarrassment.

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.

He’s really a gentleman. ***

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.

The discipline among them, was plain to see, as they gathered together in little groups, according to their ranks. A footman walked briskly up to a flashy bullet-proof Lamborghini Gallardo and threw open its doors. Two pompous looking men emerged from within it. They both wore black tweed jackets over white shirts. One of the men was taller, with blue eyes, and the other, short, with gray eyes and a bushy grey beard. From his physical appearance, he was the older of the pair. The taller had a sharp, well cut out face, which filled up with lines when he showed any emotion, while the other had a square face, with grey penetrating eyes. The taller man is Güstavo, the shorter, Douglas.

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.