Owned By The Don
“Then what way is that, Don?”
He turned then, the title snapping through the air like a warning. The shadows of the room framed his face, half in darkness, half in the golden hum of the last light. “You don’t get to call me that here.”
“Why not?” she challenged. “That’s who you are again, isn’t it? The Don. The man who makes the world move when he breathes.”
He crossed the space between them, slow, deliberate, until the air itself seemed to vibrate. His hand came to rest on the back of her neck, thumb tracing her pulse. “And what does that make you?” he asked, voice low.
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