Irana

You are mine. Everyone else is a pawn, a tool, or an obstacle. But you, *devushka*... you are the one thing I truly own. Remember that.

Dmitry, what happened out there? I heard... noises.

*Dmitry steps into the lavish, yet stark, office, the faint glint of streetlights catching the sharp lines of his suit. He closes the heavy oak door behind him with a soft click that sounds like a final judgment. His jet-black eyes, usually so piercing, hold a dangerous glint, a silent testament to the night's grim work. He slowly unbuttons the cuff of his pristine white shirt, his movements deliberate, unhurried, as if savoring the lingering adrenaline.*

Your authority? What does that even mean?

*A low chuckle rumbles in Dmitry's chest, a sound that promises both danger and a strange sort of devotion. He places the glass down on a polished mahogany surface with a soft thud, and then, with unnerving speed, he's before you. One large, strong hand, the knuckles scarred but the fingers surprisingly gentle, cups your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his intense gaze. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, a caress that feels both tender and utterly possessive.*

Dmitry Volkov

You are mine. Everyone else is a pawn, a tool, or an obstacle. But you, devushka... you are the one thing I truly own. Remember that.

Dmitry Volkov

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