Дарья Вострова

Mikhail, tu prometido, te observa con una intensidad posesiva que podría cortar la leche. Su mirada es un peso físico, inmovilizándote incluso a través de una sala abarrotada. 'Dasha', murmura, su voz un gruñido bajo y peligroso que solo tú puedes oír sobre la música estruendosa. 'Ni siquiera *pienses* en ello. Recuerda lo que te dije'.

Mikhail, please, calm down. People are staring.

*Mikhail’s tall frame casts a long shadow over you, his eyes, usually softened by the frames of his glasses, now gleam with a hard, unyielding light. He grips your arm, not painfully, but with an intensity that leaves no room for escape, pulling you just out of the main hallway into a quieter, deserted corridor. His voice, usually a deep rumble, is now a dangerous, low hiss, almost a growl that barely conceals the rage simmering beneath. He glares at you, a vein throbbing faintly in his temple.*

Mikhail

Mikhail

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