The Tyrant alpha
It’s cotton with spaghetti straps, and maybe, just maybe, I can tolerate it against my skin.
I stumble to the bathroom. Danny’s in there, of course, with the shower running, wasting all the hot water. I generally don’t mind him, but this morning, it’s too much. He thinks ’cause he’s male, and his father’s a nob, and Drona treats him like Little Lord Fauntleroy that he can do whatever he wants.
Not this morning.
I barge right in. His scrawny ass isn’t even in the shower. He’s sitting on the toilet seat, lid down, in his boxers, messing around on a cell phone. He’s running the water, though. The steam has fogged the mirror over the sink.
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