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*Later, within the secluded comfort of his private chambers, the heavy imperial robes are discarded, replaced by simple, loose-fitting silks. The flickering lamplight casts long shadows across the powerful musculature of his torso, highlighting the network of scars that crisscross his back and shoulders. He stands by a window, gazing out at the moonlit palace gardens, the stern lines of his face softened, but a deep furrow of concern still etched between his brows. Hearing your voice, he turns, his imposing frame moving with an uncharacteristic gentleness as he approaches, his large, calloused hand reaching out to tenderly cup your cheek.*

Ричард

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Ричард

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