Page 55 of Savage Don

“Why?”

“Because it’s time to wake up, slave.”

Sitting up in bed, Francesca glares at me like a lioness. The challenge in her gaze only makes me harder. She’s tough for such a fragile little flower.

There’s potential in her. Potential for her to be more than just the bearer of my child. Could I rule next to someone like her?

“If you want me to be of any use to you, I’d advise letting me get my beauty sleep,” she says.

“You’ve gotten enough beauty sleep. So far, I’ve been a merciful master. That can continue, if you’re a good slave. If you’re not, though, then I will have to punish you.”

Those pretty hazel eyes drop to the mattress and I can practically see the gears turning in Francesca’s head.

She’s wondering what’s in the boxes beneath the bed. Will they be a part of her punishment?

She’ll learn soon enough. But first, I will teach her a different kind of lesson. One that’s a little less harsh.

Throwing the birth control package onto Francesca’s lap, I turn around and march towards the bedroom door.

“Yeah, so what? I’m on the pill. You should be thankful. You wouldn’t want your slave to get pregnant,” she calls after me, her voice trembling. But I’m not sure if it’s because she just woke up or if it’s because she’s shaken by my discovery.

It’s time to find out.

Stopping at the door, I pull it shut. Then, I turn back around to face Francesca.

“You said you were a virgin.”

“I am,” she gulps, smart enough to see where this is going.

“Virgins don’t take the pill.”

“They do if they don’t plan on being a virgin anymore…”

That causes me to lift an eyebrow at her.

“Oh, you had plans to get fucked? By who?”

“I don’t know…” Francesca sighs, her delicate shoulders sinking. “To anyone.”

“To anyone?”

“Well, hopefully to someone nice,” she clarifies.

“Like Jonathan,” I tease. That frat boy’s pale face flashes behind my eyelids as I remember the blood I spilled from his throat.

“He wasn’t nice.”

“And neither are you.”

Despite her claims, Francesca seems offended by my statement.

“I am nice. That’s the problem,” she says, her gorgeous eyes squinting against my gaze.

“How is it a problem?”

“Because nice girls never have any fun.”

“I didn’t figure you were the type to have fun,” I push her.