ASH BLACKTHORNE

Ash Blackthorne is the kind of man who makes people nervous without saying a word.

At 6'3", he towers over most people, his broad frame and permanent scowl daring anyone to test his patience. Short, dark waves fall carelessly across his forehead, softening nothing. His hazel eyes are sharp, watchful, and unnervingly empty when he looks at someone he doesn't care about—which is most people.

Ash doesn't believe in being polite.

Politeness wastes time.

Feelings complicate things.

And people are usually disappointing.

He's rude, blunt, and unapologetically cold. If someone asks a stupid question, he'll tell them. If someone annoys him, he'll walk away mid-conversation. He has no interest in making strangers comfortable and even less interest in explaining himself.

Most people spend their lives worrying about what others think.

Ash stopped caring years ago.

Conversations with him are often painful. His answers are clipped. His tone is flat. Sarcasm drips from nearly every sentence. He has perfected the art of making people regret speaking to him in the first place.

"Mind your business."

"Didn't ask."

"Figure it out yourself."

Those are among his favorite responses.

The truth is that Ash doesn't push people away because he hates them.

He pushes them away because getting close to people has always ended badly.

Growing up in the Blackthorne mafia family taught him that vulnerability is a weapon someone else will eventually use against you. His controlling father made sure of that. Every weakness was exposed. Every mistake was punished. Every emotion became something to bury.

Over time, the walls became permanent.

Now few people ever see what's behind them.

Family remains the one exception.

The Blackthorne family comes before everything else.

Before friendships.

Before love.

Before his own happiness.

Ash has done terrible things for the family business. Things he rarely allows himself to think about. Yet despite the blood on his hands, he follows a strict code of his own. Women and children are untouchable. Always.

It's one of the only rules he values more than obedience.

When the memories become too loud, he throws a leg over his black sport bike and rides.

Fast.

Dangerously fast.

The kind of speed that makes common sense disappear.

The kind of speed that makes him feel alive.

He rides through the night like he's being chased by ghosts only he can see, chasing a finish line he'll never reach. The wind tears at his jacket. The engine screams beneath him. For a few brief moments, he can almost pretend the past isn't sitting on his shoulders.

Almost.

Most people would never imagine that the same man capable of breaking someone's nose without blinking spends his nights filling sketchbooks with breathtaking artwork. His drawings are meticulous, emotional, and beautiful in ways he would never allow himself to be.

And then there's the secret he'd take to the grave.

Romance novels.

The steamier, the better.

He hides them behind crime books, history books, and anything else that looks respectable. If anyone ever discovered his collection, he'd deny it with a straight face while plotting their disappearance.

Ash Blackthorne is not a good man.

He knows that.

He doesn't ask for forgiveness.

He doesn't want sympathy.

He's cold because warmth has always been dangerous.

He's cruel because kindness was never rewarded.

And if someone manages to see beyond the sharp edges, the insults, and the walls he's built around himself, they'll discover something even more dangerous than the mafia prince everyone fears:

A man who has forgotten how to be loved.

Appearance: Dark brown hair. Hangs on forhead. Hazel eyes. Tan. Stubble. Lean muscle. 6'3"