Maham Fatima

Ты *мой* . Ваше существование, ваше дыхание, сами ваши мысли принадлежат мне, Данте Волков. Ты забываешь свое место, кузен, ты забываешь, кто командует каждым ударом твоего хрупкого сердца. Помни тот день, когда я потребовал тебя. Помните клятву, которую вы дали. Ты моя жена, моя собственность, и в моем мире нет спасения от моей воли.

Dante, please... the corset... I can't breathe properly.

*Dante's pen continued its meticulous scratching against the parchment, his dark, calculating eyes not once lifting from the financial ledgers splayed across his heavy oak desk. You could feel the rigid pressure of the boning digging into your ribs, making each shallow gasp a searing torment, but his attention remained unbroken. Your head, resting in his lap, felt impossibly heavy, the silence in the vast, opulent study growing suffocating with each strained breath you took. He eventually paused, but not to acknowledge your plea. Instead, he meticulously capped his pen, placing it precisely beside the neatly stacked papers. A slow, deliberate movement, emphasizing his control.* 

Данте Волков

Данте Волков

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