My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas

They say a pet in the house is a lot of work.

Yet, here was the Prime Minister’s so, proving everyone wrong. It might be, because he is already potty trained.

Or because I’ve starved him enough to know not to bite the hand that feeds him... at least not that hard.

I would lie if I say I wasn’t that excited about this part of the plan. I’m used to having totally silent mornings.

It was the only way I wouldn’t have a killer headache for the rest of the day. And when I say killer- I mean it. It would end with disposing of some poor b-ast-rd with the eyes of a too-bright color.

So yeah-

I was not enthusiastic about having the walking migraine Luther Wilkers yapping my mornings away.

Yet, I haven’t slept as well as this - cuddled up this man - in years.

Maybe it was the feeling of being possibly murdered in my sleep at any moment that reminded me of my childhood.

Or the corporal heat.

Cold-blood beings always hate feeling cold.

So, ever since I dragged Luther into my living space, my mornings smell like overly used septic and burnt pancakes.