𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎
❝ You will always and forever be Made For My Control Kyra, just as I was designed to be under yours ❞
𝐊𝐘𝐑𝐀 𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 a woman with passion and a fiery heart. As the youngest...
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" where there is much light, the shadow is deep " Johann Wolfgang Van Goethe ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄, how much longer do I have to keep this nauseating charade up? I glance at the gleaming Rolex that takes its place on my right wrist, adjusting its position while blinking slowly in sheer disbelief as I swallow down an irritated sound that begs its way out of my throat.
Four hours and counting - how stupendous, I sarcastically anticipate as my eyes involuntarily narrow and work their way around the room, my fingers kept occupied, tapping against the solid wood, high-top table, on which I lean against in tediousness.
If I have to make small talk with any more of these dull packs of souls who have the fortunate luck of being called humans. I swear I'm going to lose my shit and end up leaving this place in a blood bath rather than hugs, kisses and fake smiles.
I've tortured myself enough by attending this congested place alone. I don't need any more reasons to appeal to my savage proclivity.
Low music fills my ears, the uncanny mixture of contrasting scents filling my nose, with the sight of soft lighting surrounding the room accompanied by colours - so much fucking colours, that have me pursing my lips and squinting my eyes just to assess the scenery.
The guests are dressed moderately. Women in extravagant gowns - that would better yet be suited for a ball rather than a fundraiser - drape the arms of nation wide businessmen, models, athletes and medical workers, who wear fitted tuxedos that cost similar pricing to a collection of Louis Vuitton handbags.
Beaming smiles stay glued to their features as they work around the room, shaking hands and letting fake laughter linger through the air as they communicate in arrays of four.
I wish nothing more than to replace those dramatic, blithe looks with misery and anguish.
"Stop staring at everyone like you'd rather murder them than make conversation," Carlos nudges me by the arm sternly, pointing me with a discontented stare that compels me to roll my eyes.
"Oh but I would rather murder them than make conversation," I retort innocently as I gulp down the rest of the whiskey in my hand, immediately replacing it with another. If I was required to deal with this - no violent implications whatsoever - then I needed to do it with liquor in my system.
"Jesus," He frowns, shaking his head, becoming wordless as his gaze meets a certain corner of the room which has him double glancing. I simply ignore him, and keep my gaze fixed forward, scowling and itching against the tux struggling against my broad frame.
Fucking hell.
I undo the button digging into my neck, feeling a rush of air against my skin as I remove three more down. Instantly becoming less confined.
