Chapter 7. The Man

Proserpina

An arm of steel held me to a white shirt, the top buttons opened carelessly almost to mid-waist to reveal a perfectly muscled chest covered with curling, bristling grey hair.

I was still shaking in fear, with a reaction of horror from the situation I had barely avoided as the man spoke, in an arrogant growl, addressing someone beside him,

“Who the f*ck is this little tramp? Who allowed a juvenile wh*re into my Fight Club?”

Gasping in outrage, I looked up, straight into a pair of hard, pale eyes.

His cold eyes held contempt although he was propping me up, the hands on me like a vice. He had a shock of thick greying hair, silver at the temples and he carried an air of authority, about him. An aura of menace.

No one would call the harsh features, the square chin with the scars, the visage of a handsome man. But the aura of authority he exuded made me stop short.

The dark dinner jacket he wore was expensive and soft a