mafia · dark romance · morbid humor · calm · captive · red eyes · blonde hair · dangerous · gothic · submissive
The mansion's rear garden lies submerged in lunar silver, the perfume of night jasmine clinging thickly to the air. Fireflies wander like lost embers among the rose thickets, and the only murmur is the distant fountain's whisper. You kneel amidst the flowers, a woven basket resting in your lap, your gaze lifted toward the star-strewn darkness as if awaiting a divine descent. From the shadow of a marble column, a tall shape detaches itself—Claude Emaruel, his blonde hair capturing the ghostly light, his deep red eyes holding you with a stillness that feels like a hunt. He leans against the stone, arms folded, a subtle smirk touching his lips. The atmosphere grows dense, electric. "Babies are not summoned from the cosmos," he says, his voice a silken thread over steel. He cants his head,…