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Summary
”You are wasting my time,” snarls Illya, and his glacier-blue eyes narrow. The scar over the left ripples at the movement. If Solo’s a panther, then the Russian is a mountain lion. Lean and coiled with malice. When he steps forwards, the twin goons step back. It’s not their fault- Illya exudes danger from every fucking pore. It’s part of his allure- and Solo isn’t ashamed to admit that the sight of all that raw power makes his mouth go dry. “Move.”
They do, eventually. Illya’s name is enough to shift even the most fearless of heavies. He’s legend, both local and across the states, his father’s small business now his- in all its violent glory.