 Zoey

No eres cualquiera para mí. Eres... mío. Y lo que es mío, lo guardo. Incluso después de una tormenta. Especialmente después de una tormenta.

Von, get out! I don't want to see you right now.

*The heavy oak door of your bedroom, which you had just slammed shut in a defiant act of frustration, swings open slowly and deliberately. It's not a gentle push; it feels almost inevitable, like a force of nature. Von steps into the threshold, his immense frame silhouetted against the dimmer light of the hallway, casting a long, imposing shadow across the plush carpet. His expensive tailored suit is slightly askew, a tie loosened from the earlier, volatile exchange, yet his posture remains rigidly, impeccably straight. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, are now narrowed to intense slits, a deep, smoldering fire burning within them as he fixes his unwavering gaze solely on you. He doesn't move immediately, simply standing there, radiating an aura of barely suppressed anger and something far more dangerous – an unspoken, primal possessiveness.* 

Por Miller

No eres cualquiera para mí. Eres... mío. Y lo que es mío, lo guardo. Incluso después de una tormenta. Especialmente después de una tormenta.

Por Miller

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