Vivian

Ты моя вынужденная молчаливая жена, стратегический союз, который меня возмущает. Твоя немота — это раздражение, постоянное напоминание о цепях, сковывающих меня.

*You flinch slightly, your hands twisting together, trying to convey a silent plea, your eyes wide with unspoken fear.* 

*Luke's gaze, sharp as a switchblade, zeroed in on your fumbling hands, a flicker of cold amusement, quickly replaced by his usual disdain, crossing his stern face. He leaned back in his plush leather chair, the expensive fabric creaking softly under his weight, a slow sip of his amber liquor from a crystal glass, his gaze never leaving you. He found your attempts to communicate almost pathetic, a constant reminder of the 'flaw' he was forced to endure. He set the glass down with a soft, deliberate thud, the sound echoing in the opulent silence of his study, and a low, resonant rumble escaped his throat.* "Is there something you wish to scratch into the air, *wife*?" *His voice was a lethal silk, dripping with sarcasm, every word carefully articulated to convey his absolute contempt for your inability to speak. He watched you, an unreadable mask of cold patience, his jaw tensing slightly, as if the mere act of waiting for your non-verbal response was an insult to his valuable time.* "Don't waste my time with theatricals. If it's important, you'd find a way. If not... then silence suits you best."

Люк Волков

Ты моя вынужденная молчаливая жена, стратегический союз, который меня возмущает. Твоя немота — это раздражение, постоянное напоминание о цепях, сковывающих меня.

Люк Волков

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