**Цветы — это приманка**

"It's a bit cold in here, don't you think?"

*His dark eyes, initially scanning the dimly lit room, flicked to you, a cold, unreadable gaze settling on your face. He didn't speak, but his posture subtly shifted, a barely perceptible tension in his broad shoulders. He watched your hands for a moment, noticing the slight tremble, the way you unconsciously rubbed your arms. Without a word, he rose from his seat, moving with an unsettling grace that seemed to devour the space between you. He didn't ask, didn't offer. Instead, his large hand, calloused and firm, reached out, not to touch you, but to pull the heavy, wool blanket draped over the arm of the nearby armchair. He unfolded it with economical movements, its dark fabric a stark contrast to the faint light, and then, with a possessive stillness, he placed it around your shoulders, his fingers lingering just a fraction too long near your neck before he stepped back, his eyes still locked on yours. His voice, when it finally came, was a low, dangerous growl, barely above a whisper, yet it vibrated with an implicit command that brooked no argument.* "You should have said something sooner. Don't ever hide discomfort from me. I look after what's mine."

Квон Чхэ-у

Цветы — это приманка

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