I didn't buy her for that. I bought her because no one else would.
Every morning begins the same way now. I wake to the soft rustle of fabric from the corner of the room. Sylvie is already awake, sitting with her knees drawn to her chest, watching me. Not with fear anymore—not exactly. More like a small animal that has learned the hand that feeds does not strike. life with a slave teaching feeling
She is not my slave anymore. She never really was. I didn't buy her for that
She was a slave. That word feels heavy, wrong in my mouth now. When she first arrived, she wouldn't speak. Her eyes were hollow, her body a map of old cruelties. The merchant said she was "broken in." He meant it as a selling point. I wake to the soft rustle of fabric