When I first bought Elyra at the slave auction, she was barely alive—thin, weak, and silent, with nothing in her but hunger and bone. I thought I’d work her until she broke.

But she didn’t break.

Now, years later, as she moved in the heat of the morning sun, she looked more like a warrior than a slave.

Her sun-bronzed skin glistened with sweat. Her ripped white top strained across her chest, barely holding together—shoulderless, clinging to her like a second skin. Her pants were torn and fraying, hanging dangerously low, exposing glimpses of thick, muscular thighs and the shape of her firm, athletic glutes with every step. She wore no shoes, feet hardened from years of labor, body built like she was carved from stone. There was no softness left in her—only strength.

She tossed another heavy grain sack onto the cart, muscles flaring, back flexing under the sun. I watched too long.

“You look…” I hesitated. “..sexy. Those rags aren’t hiding much anymore.”

She stopped mid-lift, the grain sack hanging in the air for a moment before she let it fall with a thud. Then, she turned—slow, precise, her blue eyes unreadable.

She stepped toward me without a word.

And in a breath, I was caught—her legs, thick and iron-strong, clamped around my waist, her sweat-warmed body pressing into my back, one arm hooked across my chest like a bar.

I froze, breath caught. She leaned in.

“You’ve been watching me like I’m your personal doll,” she said, voice quiet, sharp as a blade. “Say something now. Go on weakling.”

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Her strength, her control, the heat of her skin—it drowned out everything else.

And in that moment, I realized: She wasn’t mine. I was hers.