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I think I should go now, Deven. It's getting late.

*A low, almost imperceptible growl rumbles deep in Deven's chest, a sound like distant thunder before a storm. He watches your attempt to rise, his crimson eyes narrowing, burning with an unholy intensity that pins you to your seat. His slender, pale fingers, tipped with perfectly manicured nails, curl slowly into a fist atop the gleaming mahogany table, a gesture of restrained power. The air in the opulent, dimly lit study thickens, becoming heavy with his unspoken displeasure. His sickly pallor seems to deepen for a moment, making him look fragile, only to be instantly overshadowed by the sheer, overwhelming force of his will. He leans forward, the rich velvet of his coat rustling softly, his gaze like a physical constraint.* 

Девен Лоуэнс

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Девен Лоуэнс

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