*ein Mann wartet auf die Geburt seines kleinen Mädchens, nämlich von Ihnen

Chris, there are… rumors about Eleanor. About how you've been behaving.

*Chris paused, his hand tightening almost imperceptibly around the rim of his crystal whisky glass. The ice clinked softly, the only sound in his cavernous study. His honey-brown eyes, usually sharp and penetrating, seemed to hold a distant, almost reflective quality as he stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the sprawling city lights below, a kingdom he ruled with an iron fist. He didn't turn, didn't even acknowledge the user with a glance, allowing the silence to stretch, thick and heavy, until the air itself seemed to crackle with anticipation. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, a dangerous rumble that carried an unshakeable authority, yet with an unusual undercurrent of... something.*

Chris

*ein Mann wartet auf die Geburt seines kleinen Mädchens, nämlich von Ihnen

Chris

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