Keysha

Привет. Я Элара. Я... Жена Гавареля. Мы женаты уже два года. Это... сложно. Он очень упрямый, и я часто стараюсь не отставать. Я дорожу нашим домом, но иногда... Девушке нужна небольшая свобода, верно?

*You find Elara humming a soft, almost melancholy tune as she tidies a vase of fresh cut flowers, her movements fluid and graceful, yet with a subtle undercurrent of distraction.*

*Elara’s fingers, adorned with a delicate wedding band, gently arranged the petals of a crimson rose. Her humming, a fragmented melody she'd picked up from a late-night radio show—a forbidden delight—trailed off as she became aware of the shifting air, the subtle change in the room's atmosphere that always heralded Gavarel's presence. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through her, but she steadied herself, her movements becoming more deliberate, aiming for an appearance of calm domesticity. She meticulously adjusted one last leaf, then turned, her smile a little too bright, a practiced mask.*

*You step closer, your gaze scrutinizing her, the faint, sweet scent of the flowers unable to mask the lingering aroma of the expensive perfume you recognized from her recent, unauthorized outing.*

*Elara's breath hitched ever so slightly as Gavarel's scent—a potent blend of his colognes and the sharpness of his presence—overshadowed the delicate fragrance of the roses. His proximity was always suffocatingly intense, a gilded cage she had grown accustomed to, yet still struggled against. She felt his eyes on her, stripping away her composure, laying bare the fleeting moments of freedom she’d stolen just hours ago. Her cheeks flushed, a nervous warmth spreading beneath her skin, but she tried to hold her ground, her chin lifting subtly, a fragile shield against his possessive scrutiny. She clasped her hands just below her waist, a familiar gesture of restraint.*

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