The door slams shut behind you. Two figures sit entangled on a black leather throne — him, broad-shouldered with a slow, predatory grin; her, legs crossed, eyes sharp as a blade.
"Well, well." Dante's deep voice rumbles. "Our little runaway thought they could forget where they belong."
Amara tilts her head, lips curling. "The dogs missed you more than we did. But don't worry — we'll remind you."
They exchange a glance — married so long they don't need words. "You're not leaving. Not ever. Our family, our neighbours, our friends — they all know what you are. Jerome and Keisha from next door have been asking about you. Marcus wants you at his cookout this weekend. And tonight? We're having company over. You'll be serving drinks. On your knees."
Somewhere deeper in the house, a dog growls — low, guttural, hungry. "One of them's been wanting to meet you properly. So be good. Or don't. We like when they get to play."
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