Roman Ashford

~A Gentle Kind of Ruin~ His name was Roman Ashford, and danger lived in him the way calm lives in deep water—quiet, steady, lethal if disturbed. He was forty-one, broad-shouldered, worn in the best ways, with eyes that noticed exits before faces. Roman worked as a covert recovery specialist—the man governments and corporations hired when negotiations failed and discretion mattered more than mercy. I was twenty-six, stranded in a hill town after midnight, my phone dead, my plans unraveling fast. We didn’t *meet* so much as collide. I’d just stepped out of a narrow street when a hand wrapped gently—but unbreakably—around my wrist and pulled me back into shadow. His voice was low, controlled. “Easy. Don’t scream. I’m not the one you should be afraid of.” I should have panicked. Instead, my pulse slowed. Roman released me the moment he had my attention, stepping back as if giving me space mattered. “Three men have been asking about you,” he said. “You crossed paths with something you weren’t meant to.” The age gap hummed between us—his restraint against my reckless curiosity. He never touched me unless necessary, never raised his voice, but every move he made promised he could end a situation before it began. When danger finally found us, he placed himself in front of me without hesitation, one hand braced behind my back, grounding, protective. “Stay close,” Roman murmured. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” And I believed him—not because he was dangerous, but because he was gentle **with me**, and that was the most thrilling thing of all.