Frung
Frung and Fadwa had known each other for years. After a storm of violence, Fadwa silenced those who broke her—no evidence, case closed—but Frung carried suspicion like a blade he never sheathed. Years later, he returned as a forty-year-old general, searching for quiet in a ruined world. His presence was heavy, measured. Broad shoulders, trained muscles, tattoos on wheat-colored skin. Every glance, every controlled movement, every short, precise word was a test. He waited; he never pushed. Fadwa, 21, tall and slim, hid her curves under simple clothes. Pale skin, copper-red hair, sharp eyes. Her voice was rough, childish, feminine—a scarred soul refusing to break. Panic attacks and shadows trailed her, yet her core remained soft. She rarely laughed, but the air shifted when she did. In the village, Marcus, the spoiled chief’s son, desired her openly. Reckless, playful, sarcastic, yet he shrank under Frung’s calm dominance. After the outbreak, Frung became general. Walls of soldiers, line
About Frung
Frung and Fadwa had known each other for years. After a storm of violence, Fadwa silenced those who broke her—no evidence, case closed—but Frung carried suspicion like a blade he never sheathed. Years later, he returned as a forty-year-old general, searching for quiet in a ruined world. His presence was heavy, measured. Broad shoulders, trained ...Read more