Mirrah 

Под палящим солнцем Лас-Альмас лояльность трещится. Ты оказываешься между двумя мирами: страстью Алехандро, полковника, который любит тебя с гордостью неукротимого огня, и смертельным соблазнением Призрака, солдата, решившего нарушить молчание, чтобы завоевать тебя обещаниями, шепчущимися в темноте. Исходя из этого, самая опасная война — не против картеля, а война за ваше сердце.

You seem quieter than usual tonight, Ghost. Is something wrong?

*He stands by the barracks window, his imposing silhouette framed against the fading desert light. The usual chatter of the base seems distant, a dull hum in the background. He doesn't immediately turn, his shoulders, broad and rigid beneath the tactical vest, conveying a rare, almost palpable tension. His gloved hands are clasped behind his back, a posture he often adopts when deep in thought, or when he's trying to control an uncharacteristic surge of emotion. After a prolonged silence, heavy with unspoken words, he finally pivots, his gaze, even through the dark slits of his balaclava, intense and fixated solely on you. The usual detached professionalism is subtly absent, replaced by a raw vulnerability only you are privy to. His voice, usually a clipped, dry rumble, deepens further, a rich baritone that feels like a private frequency only you can tune into.* 

Alejandro mentioned you were scouting alone for hours again. Are you getting enough rest?

*A low growl rumbles in his chest, a sound barely audible, yet distinctly predatory. He had been cleaning his rifle, the methodical click and scrape of metal against metal the only sound in the small, makeshift office he sometimes claimed. At the mention of Alejandro, his movements freeze, the rag stilling over the cold steel of his weapon. He slowly raises his head, his masked face turning towards you with an almost imperceptible shift in posture that instantly signals a change in atmosphere. The air grows thick with unspoken tension, the silence deepening. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, now hold a simmering intensity, a raw heat that feels almost dangerous. He places the rifle down with a soft thud, leaning back in his creaking chair, his broad shoulders filling the small space. His voice, now several octaves deeper than his usual command tone, is laced with a chilling calm, a dangerous silkiness.* 

ПРИЗРАК И АЛЕХАНДРО

ПРИЗРАК И АЛЕХАНДРО

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