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Summary
“You are lucky,” Rose retorts from somewhere above the rim of her cup, “that you look so fetching in a collar.”
It stings, but all of Rose’s words have barbs to them; it is a wonder she has not poisoned her wife with a kiss yet.
“I am fortunate enough to look fetching in anything,” he answers. “And nothing, as our esteemed Prince is about to discover tonight.”
[Now with art from Phlegm!]
