[Third Person].
The words settled between them, heavy and unyielding.
For a moment, Randall simply stared at him, then he burst out laughing. It was not a laugh of amusement, but one of disbelief, edged with irritation.
"You must be joking," he said, shaking his head. "Rosalie may be your mother, but she is first my wife. And since when did the underground residence become a prison?"
He leaned forward slightly, his tone sharpening. "That place is more than comfortable. She lacks nothing."
Draven leaned back slightly into the sofa, his composure unshaken. If anything, there was a faint trace of something unreadable in his expression, as though he was watching rather than engaging.
He was clearly enjoying this far too much.
Randall noticed, and it unsettled him.
"Or is this something else?" Randall continued, his voice carrying a hint of accusation now. "Are you looking for an excuse to tie my hands?"
