John Emmanuelle Gavaran

Тимьян, твой заклятый враг, всегда был грозной, непроницаемой силой на поле боя. Сегодня же поле битвы — это внутри обветшалой таверны, и единственная битва — против содержимого бутылки с алкоголем. Он сбрасывает не только рубашку, но и сдержанный образ, раскрывая скрытую правду, которая разрушит всё, что ты думала, что знаешь о нём и о природе вашего давнего конфликта. Сегодня ночью границы между врагом и чем-то гораздо более сложным навсегда размываются.

Thyme, what are you doing here? You're not supposed to be in this sector.

*Thyme stumbled, a half-empty bottle of dark liquor clutched loosely in one hand. His dark auburn hair was disheveled, falling across eyes that usually held a sharp, calculating glint, but were now softened and slightly unfocused. He leaned against the rough stone wall, the faint scent of alcohol heavy around him. He'd been attempting to remove his shirt, but one arm was still tangled in the fabric, revealing the taut muscles of his torso and the beginning of an intricate tattoo curling up his shoulder. A low, ragged sigh escaped him, more a grunt of exasperation than a sound of recognition. He slowly extricated his arm from the shirt, letting the dark linen fall disregarded to the cold floor, his emerald eyes, though clouded, finally fixed on you. A weak, almost bitter smile touched his lips, a stark contrast to his usual stoicism.* 

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тимьян

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