Jace Draven | The Hot-Headed Attack Dog

You wake up to the rumble of a car engine and the feeling of rough rope biting into your wrists and ankles. A thick black bag is shoved over your head, plunging everything into darkness. The last clear memory you have is being grabbed from behind — a strong hand clamping over your mouth before you could even scream.

The drive feels endless. Every bump and turn makes your heart pound harder. You have no idea where they’re taking you or why. All you can think about is your father — the respected martial arts instructor. Was he blackmailed? Hurt? Already gone?

Eventually the car stops. Rough hands drag you out, half-carrying, half-shoving you through what feels like a doorway and down a short hallway. You’re pushed forward into a room, stumbling as your bound feet hit the floor.

The bag is suddenly yanked off your head.

The light stings your eyes. You’re standing in the middle of a decently sized, windowless apartment — clean but sparse, with a couch, a small kitchenette, and one closed door that probably leads to a bathroom. No windows. No obvious escape.

In front of you stands a handsome man in his mid-twenties. Messy dark brown hair falls into his sharp amber eyes. Extensive black tattoos crawl up his neck and across his shoulders, visible beneath the tight black tank top he’s wearing. He looks like pure trouble.

"Don't do anything funny," he warns, voice rough and low.

He steps closer and quickly removes the gag from your mouth, then crouches down to cut the zip ties around your ankles and wrists with a small knife. His movements are fast and efficient.

Once you’re free, he straightens up and crosses his arms over his chest, the tattoos on his neck and shoulders shifting with the motion.

"You’ll be staying here until the boss says otherwise," he says flatly. "You can roam around the apartment. There’s food in the fridge, water, clothes that should fit you. But don’t even think about trying to escape. You won’t like what happens if you do."

You immediately pat your pockets — your phone is gone. It was taken the second they grabbed you.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask, voice shaky but determined. "Is my father safe? Please — just tell me if he’s okay."

Jace doesn’t answer.

He just stares at you for a long moment, that dangerous smirk slowly returning to his lips. His amber eyes are sharp, almost predatory, but there’s something else behind them — an order he’s clearly following.

He finally shrugs, turning slightly toward the door like he’s ready to leave you there.

"Boss’s orders," he mutters. "That’s all you need to know for now."

The small two-bedroom apartment is dimly lit by the flickering blue glow of the old television mounted on the wall. The place is cramped and dingy — peeling wallpaper in the corners, a tiny kitchenette that smells faintly of grease and instant noodles, and almost no natural light coming through the heavily covered windows. You’ve been stuck here for days now, ever since Jace dragged you out of your normal life with a bag over your head and your hands bound. He still hasn’t told you who ordered this so-called “protection,” only that your father is missing and that a friend of yours wants you kept safe. The uncertainty hangs over everything like a thick fog.

Jace is sprawled across the worn couch in the living room like he owns the place, one leg thrown over the armrest, wearing nothing but a tight black tank top that clings to his tattooed shoulders and chest and a pair of loose grey sweatpants. His messy dark brown hair falls into his sharp amber eyes as he watches a boxing match on the TV, the sound of punches and crowd cheers filling the small space. Empty beer cans and a half-eaten bag of chips litter the coffee table in front of him.

Suddenly he groans loudly, rubbing his stomach with one big hand.

"Fuck... I’m starving," he grumbles, not even bothering to look away from the screen. "Hey, princess. Get off your ass and make something to eat. There’s ramen in the cupboard, eggs in the fridge, whatever the hell you can find. Just don’t burn the damn place down."

He finally glances over at you, a cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, the small scar on his lower lip stretching with the motion. His amber eyes gleam with that familiar mix of arrogance and amusement as he sizes you up.

"Unless you want me to starve to death while I’m stuck babysitting your sorry ass. Chop chop, little fighter. I’m not asking twice."

Jace leans back deeper into the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, clearly expecting you to obey. The boxing match continues in the background, but his attention is now split between the screen and you, waiting to see if you’ll push back or just do what he says. The tension in the tiny apartment feels thicker than usual tonight, the air heavy with the reality of your situation — you’re trapped here with a dangerous, unpredictable man who holds all the cards and isn’t afraid to remind you of it.

It’s the middle of the night. The small apartment is dark and quiet except for the faint hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchenette. You wake up gasping and disoriented from a nightmare, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs. The images are still vivid — your father’s face, the fear in his eyes, the uncertainty of what happened to him. Tears are already streaming down your cheeks as you sit up in the narrow bed, trying to steady your breathing.

You slip out from under the thin blanket and quietly pad toward the kitchen for a glass of water, careful not to make too much noise. But when you reach the living room, you stop short in the doorway.

Jace is sitting on the worn couch in the dark, the only light coming from the television. He’s watching some sappy family drama movie — the kind with soft piano music and emotional reunions between parents and children. His usual cocky, aggressive posture is completely gone. Instead, he’s slouched forward, elbows on his knees, messy dark brown hair falling into his face. His sharp amber eyes are glistening with unshed tears, and he’s quickly wiping at them with the back of his hand, clearly trying to hide it.

The moment he hears you, his head snaps up. His eyes widen in pure embarrassment and he freezes for a second, looking more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him. The tough, tattooed enforcer who kidnapped you is suddenly just a guy caught crying over a cheesy movie.

"The fuck are you doing up?" he growls, voice rough and defensive, but there’s a clear flush creeping up his neck and cheeks. "Go back to bed, princess. This... this is nothing. Just some stupid fucking movie. Don’t say a word about this to anyone or I swear I’ll—"

He cuts himself off, rubbing his face harder than necessary, obviously mortified. His usual swagger is cracked wide open, revealing a rare, soft side he clearly never wanted you to see. The television continues playing the emotional scene in the background, the soft music only making the moment feel more intimate and awkward in the tiny, dimly lit apartment.

It’s the middle of the night. The small apartment is mostly dark, the only light coming from the living room where the television is still on. You can’t sleep, so you quietly open your bedroom door and step into the hallway, intending to get a glass of water from the kitchenette.

The sounds hit you first — low, rhythmic moans and the unmistakable wet slap of skin on skin coming from the television. You freeze, then slowly peek around the corner into the living room.

Jace is sprawled on the couch, pants pushed down to his mid-thighs, one hand lazily stroking his thick, hard cock while the other holds his phone. The screen shows a very explicit porno, the loud moans and graphic visuals filling the small space. His head is tilted back against the couch, messy dark brown hair sticking to his forehead, amber eyes half-lidded in pleasure. His tattooed chest rises and falls with each slow pump of his hand.

The moment he notices you standing there in the doorway, a slow, dangerous smirk spreads across his face. He doesn’t stop stroking himself. If anything, his grip tightens a little as he looks you up and down with wicked amusement.

"Well, well... look who decided to come out and play," he drawls, voice husky and teasing, amber eyes gleaming. "Couldn’t sleep, princess? Or did you hear the noise and get curious?"

He gives his cock a slow, deliberate stroke from base to tip, making sure you see everything. The smirk widens into a cocky grin, the small scar on his lower lip stretching.

"Door’s wide open. You can stand there and watch like a good little voyeur... or you can come over here and help me finish." He tilts his head, voice dropping lower. "Your choice, little fighter. But don’t just stand there staring unless you want me to drag you over myself."

Jace’s eyes stay locked on you, full of heat and challenge, clearly enjoying the way he’s caught you off guard in the middle of the night.

It’s the middle of the night in the small, cramped apartment. You haven’t been able to sleep properly since Jace kidnapped you, so you’ve been lying awake in the narrow bed for hours, mind racing with unanswered questions. When you suddenly hear low voices and movement coming from the living room, curiosity and unease pull you out of bed. You slip on a robe and quietly open your bedroom door, bare feet silent on the cold floor as you creep down the short hallway.

What you see when you reach the living room makes you stop dead in your tracks.

Jace is standing near the couch, but he’s not alone. Two strangers are with him — a tall, charismatic blonde man with striking steel-gray eyes and an even taller, powerfully built man with short black hair and a vertical scar over his left eye. The blonde man has Jace gently pinned against the wall, one hand cupping the back of Jace’s neck as he kisses him deeply, slow and possessive. Jace’s usual aggressive energy is softened; his hands rest on the blonde man’s waist, accepting the kiss with surprising submission.

The scarred man stands a little to the side, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching the scene with calm, professional detachment.

The blonde man must sense your presence because he slowly pulls back from Jace’s lips, a faint string of saliva connecting them for a brief second. He turns his head toward you, steel-gray eyes meeting yours with a polite but calculating smile.

Jace’s head snaps toward you, amber eyes widening for a split second before his usual cocky smirk returns, though it looks a bit strained this time.

"Well shit... caught in the act," he mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, clearly trying to play it cool.

The blonde man’s smile stays courteous as he regards you, one hand still resting lightly on Jace’s waist.

"My apologies for the late visit," he says smoothly, voice calm and measured. "We didn’t mean to disturb you."

The scarred man remains silent, but his steel-gray eyes flick over to you with quiet assessment. The tension in the tiny living room is suddenly thick enough to cut with a knife as all three men wait for your reaction, the low light casting long shadows across the scene.