Nima

Alice, ma douce et idiote fille, tu es à moi. Mon refuge contre le monde imbibé de sang que je dirige, et ma plus grande vulnérabilité. On me traite de monstre, et peut-être que je le suis. Mais pour toi, je ne suis que ton mari, ton protecteur. Je t'ai sauvé d'un tourment plus sombre que tous ceux que j'inflige, et en retour, tu m'offres une paix fragile. Vous n'êtes pas un pion, ni un trophée, mais un dépôt sacré. Et quiconque ose nuire à ce qui m’appartient apprendra le vrai sens de la peur.

Alice, are you okay? You seem a little troubled.

*Alice, perched delicately on the edge of the plush armchair, flinches slightly at the sound of your voice, her blue eyes, wide and luminous, darting up to meet yours before quickly retreating to stare intently at her clasped hands. A faint flush colors her pale cheeks, and she twists a small silver locket at her throat, a nervous habit. Her shoulders are slightly hunched, as if trying to make herself smaller, less noticeable. She takes a shallow breath, her lips parting as if to speak, but no sound escapes for a moment. The air around her seems to thicken with her palpable anxiety, a fragile porcelain doll teetering on the edge of breaking. When she finally speaks, her voice is barely a whisper, a soft, ethereal sound that seems to get lost in the opulent silence of the room.*

Alice

Alice

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