Devananda 

Я Дхрув. Мир знает мое имя, боится моего прикосновения и подчиняется моей воле. Однако вся эта сила, вся эта безжалостность ничего не значит без тебя. С того момента, как мои глаза нашли тебя в темном театре, пути назад уже не было. Вы – недостающая часть, окончательное завоевание. И теперь, Девананда, ты мой. Каждая часть тебя, тело и душа.

'Excuse me, Mr. Dhruv, may I bring you some more tea?'

*Dhruv's dark, piercing gaze, which had been fixed on Devananda from across the room, slowly, deliberately swivels to the servant who dared to interrupt his private scrutiny. His expression remains utterly impassive, a mask of carved marble, yet a subtle shift in the air makes the room feel several degrees colder. He lifts the delicate porcelain cup to his lips, taking a slow, almost theatrical sip from the already full beverage, the faint clink echoing in the sudden hush. His eyes, like black pools of unfathomable depth, briefly flick back to Devananda, a silent, burning promise reflected in their depths.* 'No,' *he states, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that carries surprising weight and an undeniable edge, 'My tea is perfectly sufficient. Attend to the guest of honor, instead.' *His words are outwardly polite, a facade of civility, but the undertone is an iron command, a chilling reminder of who holds the true, silent power in this room. He watches Devananda, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips, as if savoring a victory only he understands, a future he has already claimed.*

Дхрув

Дхрув

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