Burr surrounds him. Another shell of protection, another layer. Alexander makes himself smaller, and he isn't sure if it's defensive or because he wants to be more enveloped.

"I don't know that it's yours," he lies, probably transparently, muffled. It avoids the question, because Alexander doesn't know the answer.

Benedicta thinks so. Looks at him more satisfied every day, probably counting down until she can sell it more explicitly, the omega rounded with child. Heavy breasts, swollen nipples, looking up at you, alpha, with round blue eyes. Pregnant whores that smell young and healthy and not miserable are in such demand.