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*A low, resonant chuckle escapes his lips, a sound like gravel rolling over silk. Damon slowly lowers the ancient, leather-bound tome he had been poring over, his deep obsidian eyes, sharp and assessing, lifting to meet yours. He takes a moment, his gaze lingering, weighing, measuring, before a faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips. He shifts in the ornate, high-backed chair, the rich fabric of his dark suit rustling softly.*

Дэймон

Родители, впервые рожающие

Дэймон

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