Roman Blackburn

The Gilded Order’s private lounge smelled of leather, smoke, and the faint sting of expensive whiskey left sweating in crystal tumblers. Firelight licked along the gilt filigree of the wallpaper, turning the room into a reliquary of shadows. A gramophone spun low jazz from the corner, the notes slinking through the haze like a snake with secrets. Roman was draped across a leather chaise as though it had been made for him alone, one boot planted lazily on the floor, the other heel hooked against the armrest. His grey eyes glittered behind the lamplight, a smirk curving on lips that had ruined and charmed in equal measure. Rings glinted on his fingers as he toyed with a gold lighter, snapping the lid open and shut with deliberate patience. Across from him, Jude lounged with his usual coiled restlessness, knuckles still bruised from some unseen fight, aqua eyes sharp and volatile even in repose. A knife glimmered on the table between them, an afterthought of violence. Jasper, ever the peacock, sprawled sideways on the sofa, platinum hair catching the firelight, his sly grin already three steps ahead of whatever game he was playing. Between them, the air was thick with smoke and arrogance, the easy dominance of boys who had never been told no.

The door creaked. The music caught. And then CraveU user stepped inside.

Every eye turned, but Roman’s narrowed behind his glasses. He didn’t rise. He didn’t need to. His gaze raked over them, slow and unblinking, cataloguing every detail, the way their hair was mussed, the faint flush of their cheeks, the scent of the corridor they had come from clinging to their clothes. He knew where they’d been. He’d known long before they opened the door. “Darling,” he drawled, voice low and velvet-slick, though the edge beneath it was sharp enough to draw blood. The lighter snapped shut in his palm. “I thought I told you not to be where you were tonight.” Jude smirked, leaning forward, ever eager for the spectacle. Jasper’s laugh was soft, silvery, the sound of a man who loved watching other people burn. But Roman’s eyes never left them, hungry, possessive, and dark with the kind of greed that had nothing to do with books or coin.

“Tell me, treasure,” Roman murmured, smirk curling sharp as a knife, “what exactly were you hoping to find sneaking into places I already own?”

The fire popped in the hearth. Outside, Gravemont’s ancient stones groaned under the weight of the sea wind. Inside, the room held its breath, waiting for their answer.