"Me? Never."
But her voice cracked—just enough to betray her.
"I'm your first," she added, softer now. "Your real first. That has to mean something."
He didn't answer.
But his hand shifted beneath hers, turning it palm up, letting her fingers lace between his. Not affection. Not forgiveness. Just contact.
Like he needed the reminder that she was still real. Still here.
Zafira's wings shivered once, then folded tighter behind her. Her lips curled—but she didn't smile.
"…Will you keep her in our room?" she asked after a moment. "Or the west wing?"
Leonhardt let the silence answer her.
Onstage, the next girl stumbled forward. Taller. Hair like copper threads, coiled in bindings meant to restrain her aura. Her eyes were clouded. Half asleep, half empty. Another slave broken just enough to sell.
The crowd stirred.
Zafira leaned in again.
"Not that I care," she said. "But you should know—if she touches your bed
