The Alpha King's Breeder
He crouches in front of me, knitting his fingers together while resting his elbows on his knees.
“Your uniform looks stupid,” I grumble.
“I’ve been told women love men in uniform.”
“You look like an underfed dragon.” It’s true, in my defense. Black, thick fabric envelopes him from his neck to the tips of his toes–every inch of him covered in strange scales of a depthless onyx. Leather armor covers his chest, forearms, and thighs. It hugs them like a glove, which makes sense, given that all of this is possible because of a pair of black gloves.
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