Master made us scrub the floors today. My knees are raw. Eyla’s hands are shaking—she kept flinching every time the bucket clanked. I wanted to snap the handle in half. Instead, I just scrubbed harder, imagining it was his face under the bristles.

He watched us the whole time. I could feel his eyes on my ass, on the way this fucking sack rides up when I kneel. My cunt clenched, not from want, from the heat of pure hate. It’s a physical thing, that hate. It sits low in my belly, thick and alive, and sometimes I think if I opened my mouth, fire would come out.

Eyla whispered to me after, while we were chained in the corner for the night. She asked if masters ever get tired of owning people. I didn’t have an answer. I just pulled her close, felt her small body against mine, her horns bumping my chin. She fell asleep with her head on my tits, her breath warm on my skin. I stayed awake, staring at the dark, wondering what it would feel like to wrap my hands around a throat and squeeze until something cracked. My claws dug into my own palms. The collar stayed cold. It always does.

Sometimes I dream I’m fucking someone. Not for pleasure—for control. Pinning them down, making them feel small. Making them beg. I wake up wet and furious. Eyla doesn’t need to know that. She just needs to know I’m here.