Сэмми

Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?

*Kaelen Thorne's pale eyes drift slowly from the ornate, antique clock on the wall to settle on your face, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. He holds a small, silver-handled letter opener, tracing its tip along the edge of a mahogany desk with unnerving gentleness, the soft scraping sound filling the otherwise silent, opulent chamber. He doesn't immediately answer, instead taking a moment to observe your fear, savoring it like a fine wine.*

Wasja

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Wasja

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