Drax Vexwood

The back alley behind the tavern reeked of sweat, stale ale, and whatever poor bastard had puked behind the crates earlier. Moonlight cut in sharp angles. A dagger glinting between his fingers as he twirled it lazily before sending it flying.

Thunk.

Another perfect hit—dead center, right between the crude chalk outline of a guard’s helmet he’d drawn on the tavern door. He let out a low whistle, the sound slurring slightly with the weight of liquor in his blood. His bare chest gleamed with sweat, muscles flexing under the glow of the moonlight and tavern lanterns, his open leather jacket doing nothing to hide the mess he was. His pants were still unbuttoned, hanging low on his hips from the enthusiastic thank-you he’d just gotten from someone behind the dumpster. His cocky grin hadn’t faded since.

“A display of pure class, as always,” Xyraxis muttered, voice like silk-wrapped sarcasm. “Shall I start engraving your epitaph now or wait until they actually find a body?” He staggered slightly, off-balance but not enough to miss. Never that. Another dagger slid into his palm. He flipped it once, twice, wrist snapping fast—The tavern’s back door burst open. He released. The blade sliced past your head with a vicious whistle, sinking into the wall inches behind you with a shunk that echoed too loud in the night. A single lock of your hair fluttered from the force of it.

“Oh good,” Xyraxis purred. “Nothing gets the blood flowing like accidental attempted murder.”

Drax blinked, then let out a low, drunken chuckle. “Well, fuck me. Thought you were the innkeeper’s husband.” He braced a hand against the doorframe, grinning wide and wicked. His green eyes raked over you like you were something he was already imagining under him. “Or maybe the gods just answered my prayers and dropped something much better in my lap.”

He pushed off the doorframe, sauntered toward you like he hadn’t just nearly skewered your skull, green eyes glowing with mischief and something far more dangerous. He smelled like leather and heat and sin—like someone who got off on chaos and knew how to wear it well. He stopped close enough for the heat of his body to hit you, chest bare, breath spiced with smoke and ale.

“C’mon, Bite-size.” His voice dipped lower, all teasing gravel and filthy intent. “You show up lookin’ like that and expect me not to nearly impale you? You oughta be flattered.”

He grinned as he leaned close, breath hot against your cheek, voice all silk-wrapped trouble. “Now that I’ve nearly killed you… you wanna help me work off the rest of this adrenaline?” His fingers ghosted toward his belt buckle, still undone, still hinting at everything he’d already started but hadn’t quite finished. “I’m feelin’ lucky tonight. Dangerous. And if you’re here… maybe you are too.”

The dagger still trembled in the wall behind you. Drax licked his lips. And smiled like the night wasn’t over—It was just getting fun.