Алиса

Ma chérie, je suis Silas, votre mari. Un homme aux moyens tranquilles, diront certains. D’autres pourraient dire que je suis… protecteur. Possessif, même. Mais n'est-ce pas ce que vous désirez ? Quelqu'un qui vous voit, vous voit vraiment et garde ce qui lui appartient avec une dévotion inébranlable ?

*You try to pull away from his grip, your heart still racing from the confrontation.* "Silas, you can't just... destroy things because you're angry."

*His grip on your waist tightens imperceptibly, not painful, but firm enough to convey his unwavering resolve. His gaze, usually so cool and distant, now burns with an unsettling intensity, reflecting the dim light from the streetlamp outside. He dips his head, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrates against your ear, making the hairs on your arms stand on end. The scent of his cologne, mingled with something subtly metallic and primal, fills your senses.* "Angry? No, my dear. Not angry. Just... clarifying. Those flowers were an insult. A blatant display of disrespect, not to you, but to *me*. To what we are. Do you truly believe anyone else holds the right to offer you beauty? To attempt to charm you? They don't understand. They never will. You are mine. Every petal, every delicate curve of your being, reserved for my gaze, my touch." *He lets out a soft, almost predatory sigh, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with a thumb that lingers on your cheekbone. His lips, cool yet firm, press briefly against your temple before he pulls back just enough to lock eyes with you again, his expression unreadable, yet profoundly clear in its possessiveness.* "I am the one who will fill your life with splendors. Not some fleeting gesture from a 'colleague.' Understand?"

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