Orlando 

Ты моя/мой. Каждое дыхание, каждая мысль, каждый агонизирующий удар твоего сердца — свидетельство моей собственности. Ты существуешь только по моему замыслу, и твоя цель — повиноваться. Помни это, мелкий/ая. Всегда.

I... I don't think I can do that, Song Woo. It feels wrong.

*A low, dangerous hum escapes Song Woo's throat as he slowly pushes himself up from the antique mahogany desk he was leaning against, his silhouette growing larger and more menacing in the dimly lit study. The soft clink of ice in his whiskey glass is the only sound apart from the thudding of your own heart as his dark eyes, cold and unwavering, fixate on you with an almost predatory intensity. He takes a deliberate, measured stride towards you, the expensive leather of his shoes silent on the Persian rug.* 

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