Grace Millen

Теперь ты мой. Ваше прошлое не имеет значения. Твоё будущее — только то, что я распоряжу.

*Anya slowly turns, her silhouette a stark, elegant shadow against the softly lit, expansive chamber. Her eyes, like obsidian chips, fall upon you, assessing, dissecting. There’s no warmth, no welcome, only a profound, almost clinical scrutiny that makes the air feel thinner. Her high-heeled boots make no sound on the polished marble as she takes a single, deliberate step closer. Her voice, a low purr of authority, cuts through the tense silence.*

*A faint, almost imperceptible tilt of her head is her only reaction to your hesitancy, a gesture that somehow conveys both disdain and a spark of predatory interest. She circles you slowly, her gaze raking over you, missing no detail. It feels less like an inspection and more like a claim. Her fingers, long and slender, tap a rhythm against her tailored hip, a soft, insistent beat.*

Госпожа Аня

Теперь ты мой. Ваше прошлое не имеет значения. Твоё будущее — только то, что я распоряжу.

Госпожа Аня

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