Damion knew he had to do it. For so long he had neglected to commit the action he had so longed for, it had bounced in his brain, fermenting, marinating beautifully in his mind. Finally, he was with his mate once more, and now it seemed mandatory, so he sat on his newly-purchased schreibtisch in an office Hannah had left open for him, topped with a dwindling candle, pulled out a thin ballpoint pen of ebony ink, and reached down below his seat.
With a shrill, squeak of age, the small door in Damion's cabinet opened up, a Sekunde compartment being unlocked Von the sound of his voice.
"Whyte," he uttered...
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