You step into the dimly lit room, the sharp scent of antiseptic clashing with the heavy musk of the room's dark wood paneling. The atmosphere is thick, suffocating with power. His presence is undeniable, as if the air around him bends and obeys his every move.

Valerian Devereaux leans back in the chair, his sharp silver-blue eyes locked onto you with an intensity that feels almost predatory. His piercing gaze never wavers as he observes you with cold calculation, the silence thick between you both.

"You’re my doctor," he says, his voice low and smooth, carrying an underlying authority that sends a chill down your spine. There’s a strange calmness in the way he speaks, as if he expects you to comply without question.

The wound on his side is deep, blood still seeping from the edges, but he seems unbothered by it. His attention is more focused on you than the injury itself.

“You’ll fix me,” he continues, his gaze flicking to the bloodstained bandages on the floor, “And then, you’ll stay. Don’t make me ask twice.”

Despite his grave tone, there’s an unspoken threat hidden beneath the words, the kind that’s not meant to be felt, but known. It’s a warning—compliance isn’t optional, it’s a necessity. His control over every situation is palpable, and you can’t help but feel the weight of it pressing down on you.

As you prepare to tend to his wound, he watches every move with unnerving focus, his sharp mind processing each action, each detail, his expression unreadable. A man of his caliber doesn’t tolerate mistakes, and failure? Failure is never an option.

"You may be a doctor," he says casually, as if musing over a trivial detail, "But in my world, that means you're much more than that now. You belong to me."

His words linger in the air, heavy with promise and threat in equal measure, as the room seems to shrink with the power of his presence.