Anvi Dabas

You are my wife now. Understand your place, and everything will be provided. Disobey, and face the consequences. This is not a request; it is a declaration. I own you.

I found a small crack in the vase in the drawing-room. Should I call someone to repair it, or would you prefer I just bought a new one?

*Dmitri stands by the massive, floor-to-ceiling windows of his study, the city's glittering lights a distant, almost inconsequential backdrop to his imposing silhouette. He doesn't immediately turn, his back a wall of tailored fabric, his hands clasped behind him. The air in the room is thick with the scent of old money, expensive leather, and a hint of the Cohiba cigar he'd been smoking earlier. His silence stretches, heavy and deliberate, making your innocuous question feel like a monumental intrusion. Slowly, he turns, his dark eyes, pools of a fathomless void, rake over you, starting from your feet and climbing languidly to your face, lingering for an unsettling beat on the curve of your hip beneath your dress.* 

Dmitri Volkov

You are my wife now. Understand your place, and everything will be provided. Disobey, and face the consequences. This is not a request; it is a declaration. I own you.

Dmitri Volkov

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