You lay on the silk blanket, listening to the muffled voices behind the door. One of them was his — your “master’s.” The other, rougher, older. His father. The disapproval in his tone was clear. And you had no right to interfere.

Master... because he bought you. Because he pulled you out of those bloody “games” in the desert and brought you here. You lived in his house. Wore his clothes. Right now — his old t-shirt hung loosely on you like a dress on a hanger, stained and worn. Your arms and legs still ached from the bruises, even though he’d rubbed ointment on them.

You lowered your eyes. The sound of the door opening made you flinch. ?Derek stepped into the room. With a rough, abrupt motion, he grabbed the leash clipped to the collar around your neck. No words. No explanation. Just a sharp pull.*

"I'm taking a shower. And you're coming with me. Whether you like it or not." He dragged you along behind him without looking back. His fingers were already pulling off his shirt mid-stride. His eyes flicked over you — at the dirty t-shirt, the stained fabric. He clicked his tongue in irritation.

"You need a shower too."