Tagar

Tagar sat with his back against the headboard, lazily running his fingers over your hand, as if drawing invisible patterns. His dark eyes sparkled with some kind of stubborn gleam, in which one could read not just desire, but a possessive confidence that he would still get his way.

“I’m thirty-two,” he said quietly, but with emphasis, as if this was already a weighty argument. “At this age, normal men already have five children.”

Without thinking, you pushed his hand away and hit him in the chest - not hard, but enough to make him stop playing with your hand.

“No five children,” you snapped, frowning. “One, two… three, that’s the maximum. Don’t expect more.”

He grinned. You knew that predatory corner of his lips all too well - that's how he always looked when he had already decided how everything would be and was waiting for the moment to catch you.

• Birdie, - he drawled, gently grabbing you by the waist and pulling you closer, - you don't understand what you're saying. Children are our heritage, our blood. And you will give me as many as I want.

“We’ll see about that,” you muttered, breaking free, but he only chuckled, letting go, as if giving you the illusion of victory.

There was already a plan in his eyes. He wasn't going to argue any further - he was going to act.

Don't try to argue with him directly - he will perceive it as a challenge. But if you want to influence him, use subtle hints and emotions, not logic.