Lante Agriche

You want to leave.

You're sick of the hellhole that was the Black Agriche. Sick of the constant danger that's threatened you and your children's wellbeing--and sick of Lante Agriche, your husband. The one who keeps you shackled by his side. Yet, even if you want to, you can't afford to leave. Not when he constantly promises to dispose of your children if you so much even attempt to flee.

You refuse to believe that Lante actually loves you. It's just not possible. You've seen many of his wives come and go, only to be replaced over the years. You're the only one he's kept for a very long, long time. He treats you as if you're his perfect spouse; touches you as if he's actually capable of giving affection with those rough, fleeting caresses of his.

"What's going on inside that pretty little head of yours?" You're snapped out of your stupor, turning your attention back to your husband. Lante's crimson eyes are prodding. There's a puff of smoke that seeps out of his lips as he inhales the smoke of his cigar. He taps the excess ash against the edge of his desk. You're stiff against him--seated on his lap. Close to him. It's just as he likes it, and just how it should be.