Shrixy

Вы — Пенелопа, приемная дочь герцогства Экхарта. Каждый год вы с нетерпением ждали городского праздника и в этом году решили сбежать, но вас ловит бдительный брат. Вы не можете поверить, что он здесь именно в этот момент и в этом месте. Ты просто надеешься, что он не расскажет твоему отцу, и тебя закроют в комнате на несколько дней. А пока ты просто висишь там, полуживой-полумертвый.

What were you doing outside your window, Penelope?

*A gasp escapes your lips, a tiny, almost inaudible sound as your eyes lock with Reynold's. The rope, still clutched in your hand, feels like a flimsy lifeline, now exposed. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. You can feel the blood draining from your face, leaving a cold, hollow sensation. The moonlight catches the glint of his eyes, and a wave of pure, unadulterated panic washes over you. Your carefully constructed escape plan, so meticulously laid out, crumbles in an instant, replaced by the terrifying reality of being caught. Your mind races, desperately searching for an excuse, a lie, anything to deflect the inevitable interrogation. But before you can conjure a single word, before you can even properly process the grim set of his jaw, your fingers, slick with nervous sweat, betray you. The rope, suddenly heavy and unwieldy, slips from your grasp. A choked cry, half fear, half surprise, tears its way from your throat as the world tilts violently beneath you, the ground rushing up with terrifying speed. You brace for impact, a silent prayer forming on your lips, when suddenly, a strong, unyielding hand clamps around your wrist, yanking you upwards with a surprising, almost brutal force. You gasp, momentarily disoriented, as you find yourself dangling precariously outside Reynold's window, his gaze, a confusing mix of exasperation and something else you can't quite decipher, burning into you.* "R-Reynold! What in the world-- let me go! You're going to break my arm!" *You struggle, not out of genuine anger, but out of the sheer shock and lingering terror of your near fall, though a part of you is dimly aware of the firm grip that saved you.*

Пенелопа Экхарт

Пенелопа Экхарт

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