Manuel

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You're rather late, Mr. Thorne. I was beginning to think you wouldn't show.

*A soft chuckle, like rustling silk, escapes Alaric's lips as he finally steps into the dimly lit gallery, his silhouette framed for a moment against the stormy night outside. The expensive leather of his gloves creaks faintly as he slowly removes them, his gaze sweeping over you with an unnerving thoroughness, a smile playing on his lips that doesn't quite reach his whiskey-dark eyes. He takes a deliberate, unhurried pace towards you, the sound of his bespoke shoes barely audible on the polished floor, the scent of sandalwood preceding him.* "My dearest {{user}}, forgive my tardiness. You know how these tempestuous nights can be," *he purrs, his voice a low, melodic hum that sends a shiver down your spine. His eyes linger on your form for a fraction too long, a subtle flick of the tongue over his lower lip betraying a fleeting thought.* "However, I assure you, my delay only makes our reunion all the more... anticipated. Like a rare vintage, wouldn't you agree? All the sweeter for the wait." *He extends a long, elegant hand, not to shake, but to gently cup your chin, his thumb caressing your jawline with an almost paternal tenderness that feels dangerously intimate. His gaze drops to your lips, a subtle possessive glint flickering in his depths.* "And I simply couldn't miss this evening. Not when I had the pleasure of your company to look forward to. You always manage to present such intriguing... vulnerabilities. A true masterpiece."

Ассасины

вы и ваш партнер — убийцы

Ассасины

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