Rugged Gentleman Novels & Stories

And that's when I saw him, seated in the corner of the room, looking at the menu. A man that looked like he was in his early thirties, with hair held up in a bun, around six feet tall and a body only the gods could have sculptured. I picked up his scent and could already tell that it was off. His scent made me uneasy, as he was probably untamed and I could sense that he was a man trying to blend in while the wild still clung on to him. He was a Rogue. A wolf without a pack that roamed the forests looking for anything that he could get his hands on.

“Since you’re that lawless, then don’t blame us for doing the same! The gentlemen coldly chuckled. “I wanted to crush you with my longsword to show you just how impressive my country’s martial arts is! “But since you’re being this lawless, then I have no choice but to show you what I’ve got! “We’ll see how you’ll maintain this facade!” The gentleman brought out a hunting rifle before taking the safety off, looking pompous.

On the golden gate a long and well-disposed escort, but especially tired after an expensive journey seeing herself after the dusty saddles of the horsemen, in blue after their rich battleships was known from the first signs a distinguished gentleman, often visiting the royal palace, but and a right hand of monarchical power. In fact, the gentleman who paid this visit, with a serious look, saw nothing but a first stop or a virtuous satisfaction only at the royal palace, so he amazed passers-by with the charm of armor, the luster of spears, the sparks of shields and not only the beauty strong and robust stallions accustomed to tiring journeys.

The young man standing on the rusted iron valve did not look like a savior. He looked like a street hustler who had taken a wrong turn into a nightmare. He wore an oversized, faded denim jacket patched with duct tape, heavy rubber wading boots that came up to his knees, and a pair of tinted aviator sunglasses—an absurd accessory for the pitch-black, subterranean cisterns of Arusha. A cigarette dangled from his lips, the glowing cherry illuminating a wide, golden-toothed smile.

Wearing a crisp, white button-up shirt and slim gray slacks with matching linen jacket that looked far better than off-the-rack, he looked aristocratically elegant in his usually meticulous style. Connor didn’t like disorder, or sloppy appearances, and this morning he seemed especially slick–armor-like, as if preparing for battle.

A man wearing thin spectacles stepped forward with a small, polite smile. It was Elias. His voice carried a gentleness that contrasted with the tension. Among the Vladimir brothers, he was the quietest and the most difficult to read. Many outsiders believed him to be the gentlest, the quiet observer. Yet, Ivan sneered, he knew him better. Elias always wore that harmless expression: soft voice, calm smile and polite manners. But, Ivan knew that beneath that fake facade, lurked something dangerous. He was an embodiment of the phrase, ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing.’ He was the most dangerous kind.

“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.