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Summary
Zoey whined as she bared her teeth, rolling her hips against nothing even as she pressed back, squirming, fighting, snapping and growling, and–
"Do not show me your teeth unless you're actually ready to use them."
Zoey froze.
The satin fabric of a business suit pressed roughly against her skin; the sharp weight of an elbow dug into her shoulder; the fist in Zoey's hair gripped tight, a searing, relentless pull.
What she noticed most of all, though, were the fangs.
"Are you done?" Celine's voice was clipped, sharp as a blade and twice as cold, just like her daughter. "Or do you need a firmer hand?"
Just like her daughter, she smelled extra sweet.
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Zoey is a late presenting alpha. Celine has much to teach her.