After what feels like hours of listening to him move around the main room, the sounds gradually settling into quiet, I finally force myself to move away from the curtain where I've been frozen in fearful anticipation.
The trembling that runs through my entire body refuses to stop completely, but I manage to maintain some semblance of composure despite knowing that everything has changed between us. The terror of not knowing what comes next gnaws at me—will he return to finish what he started? Was his sudden stop just a momentary attack of conscience that will pass when his desire overrides his guilt?
I have no framework for understanding someone who can switch so suddenly between assault and apparent regret, between the gentle healing of my hands and the forceful claiming of my body.
I've learned that showing weakness can provoke worse treatment, so I force my hands to stop shaking and try to think practically about the immediate situation.
The oversized men's clothes hang loosely on my frame but provide coverage and dignity that feels precious after days of degradation. The soft fabric is a stark contrast to the rough maid outfit that now lies discarded on the floor.
Moving carefully and quietly, hyperaware of every creak from the main room, I gather the used washing cloth, the empty bucket, and the soiled maid outfit.
When I finally summon the courage to emerge from the bedroom area, my voice is carefully controlled as I ask, "Where should I put these, Master?"
The mundane nature of the question feels surreal after what just happened, but I cling to these small acts of normalcy like lifelines.
Frazier points toward the back door without looking at me, his gesture vague and his voice barely audible: "There, next to the door."
I notice the slight tremor in his hand, the way he avoids meeting my eyes, the tension in his shoulders. His guilt is palpable, filling the small space between us like a physical presence that makes the air thick with awkwardness.
Neither of us knows how to address what just happened or what it means for our future interactions in this isolated house where we're apparently destined to share space.
The silence stretches uncomfortably as I set down the items where he indicated, every movement feeling significant, every sound amplified by the tension that crackles between us. I'm hyperaware of his presence while trying not to appear to be watching him for signs of what might come next.
Frazier remains motionless on the couch, staring at his hands as if they belong to someone else. The weight of his actions settles over him like a physical burden that I can see in the slump of his shoulders.
Part of me wants to break the silence, to demand explanations or assurances. But a larger part fears that any words might shatter whatever fragile equilibrium has settled between us.
The practical question of where I'm supposed to sleep brings another moment of uncomfortable interaction. The house's single bedroom looms large in my mind with all its implications after what just happened between us.
"Where do you want me to sleep, Master?" I ask, the question loaded with fear and uncertainty.
His response is immediate and decisive: "You take the bed. I'll sleep on the couch."
It's obvious he's trying to make amends, offering what comfort he can in a clumsy, wordless attempt at apology that doesn't erase what he did but suggests some recognition that his actions were wrong.
I agree reluctantly, understanding that this arrangement is probably the safest option available to me.
Returning to the bedroom area, I blow out the small lantern and plunge the space into darkness that feels both protective and isolating. The soft bed beneath me is a strange luxury after the hard floors and wooden platforms of my captivity.
As I lie there trying to calm my racing heart, my enhanced feline hearing picks up sounds from the main room—Frazier's voice carrying through the thin walls as he mutters things he clearly doesn't intend for me to hear:
"Why did I do that?" and "Fuck, this isn't me."
The guilt in his voice is raw and genuine, adding another layer of confusion to my understanding of him. If this isn't who he normally is, then what drove him to assault me? And what guarantee do I have that whatever impulses overcame him won't do so again?
Despite the emotional weight of the day and the fear that keeps my muscles tense, exhaustion eventually overcomes my vigilance. I slip into uneasy sleep filled with dreams of home and safety that feel impossibly distant.
I wake before dawn from a disturbing dream—I was shackled and drowning in a foggy forest while the voices of Kyo and Kai called to me from an impossible distance. No matter how desperately I tried to reach them, they grew more distant until their voices faded entirely into silence.
The dream leaves me disoriented and grief-stricken, the loss of my loved ones hitting me anew in the vulnerable moments between sleep and wakefulness.
I lie still for a while, listening to the quiet sounds of the house—the creaking of wood settling, the distant sound of wind through trees, Frazier's steady breathing from the main room. I try to orient myself in this strange new reality where I exist as someone's property.
Eventually I rise quietly and move into the main room, finding Frazier still asleep on the couch. His face looks younger and less guarded in sleep, and I can see traces of the person he might be when not struggling with guilt and desire.
The house feels both foreign and too quiet in the early morning light filtering through simple windows. I move about carefully, observing my surroundings with new attention.
I note the practical arrangement of furniture, the cleanliness that speaks of someone who maintains order in his external environment. Everything speaks of a man living alone by choice rather than circumstance.
As I explore the kitchen area with careful steps designed not to wake my sleeping captor, my eyes fall on a knife left carelessly on the table—a simple kitchen blade but sharp enough to cut through more than just food.
For a moment a violent impulse flickers through my mind. What if I used it on him while he slept, ending this nightmare before it could get worse? Or on myself, choosing death over a life of violation and slavery?
The thought is brief but real, a testament to the desperation that drives people to consider actions they would never have imagined in their previous lives. But even as the idea forms, I recognize that violence isn't my nature—I'm a survivor, not a killer.
Instead, my focus sharpens on a more tangible goal that sends hope surging through my chest: escape.
With Frazier sleeping soundly on the couch, his breathing deep and regular, this might be my only opportunity to flee before the full weight of my new reality settles in permanently.
I move silently to the back door, my heart pounding with hope and terror in equal measure as I realize this could be my last chance at freedom. The door opens easily under my careful touch as I slip outside into the cool morning air that tastes like possibility.
The moment my bare feet touch the dew-soaked grass, I understand that this is my choice—perhaps the only real choice I'll have in this new life—and I take it with everything I have left.
I run toward the distant forest that might offer shelter and the slim possibility of finding other survivors from my village.
I run with everything I have left, my bare feet pounding across the dewy grass as I sprint toward the south, toward the distant forest that might offer shelter and the possibility of finding other survivors from my village.
My lungs burn and my heart pounds with exertion and hope in equal measure, but for those first precious minutes freedom feels real and achievable. The morning air is crisp against my skin, the grass wet and cold beneath my feet, the open sky above my head representing possibilities I thought were lost forever.
I know the odds of successful escape are slim—I have no supplies, no knowledge of the terrain, no clear destination except "away from here." But the alternative is accepting a life of slavery and violation.
The house grew smaller behind me until it was just a speck on the plains, and with each step hope built in my chest like a fire.
The open plains stretch ahead of me, broken only by distant trees that promise concealment and the possibility of water, shelter, perhaps even other travelers who might help a desperate beast-woman seeking freedom.
My enhanced speed and agility serve me well as I leap over rocks and navigate uneven ground, my tail helping me maintain balance as I push my body to its limits. For those beautiful moments I remember what it feels like to move through the world as a free person choosing her own path.
The sun rises behind me, warming my back and casting long shadows ahead that seem to point toward the future I'm desperately trying to reach. I run toward that light with everything I have left, every breath a prayer to forest spirits that they'll grant me this one chance.
My hope is crushed as suddenly as it bloomed.
Without warning my breath falters and my limbs grew heavy with supernatural weight that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion. Pain shoots through my body in waves that start from the slave brand on my neck and radiate outward like poison flowing through my veins.
The slave contract's grip closed around me like invisible chains more effective than any physical restraint could be. My right foot catches in the grass as I stumbled, twisting painfully as I collapsed to the ground with a cry of anguish that echoed across the empty plains.
The magical punishment is twofold—searing pain for deliberately defying my bondage, combined with a draining weakness as the distance stretched the magical tether that apparently binds my life energy to my master.
My vision dims and my strength drained away as forces I didn't understand enforce my captivity with ruthless efficiency. The grass around me seemed to waver like a mirage as consciousness threatened to slip away entirely.
I understood with crystalline clarity that this is what true helplessness feels like—not just being overpowered by stronger opponents, but having the very fabric of reality turned against me by magic I couldn't comprehend or resist.
The realization hit me like a physical blow: there truly is no way back from this, no escape from the bonds that tie me to Frazier not just legally but metaphysically. The magic that binds me is absolute and inescapable.
I curled up on the ground clutching my twisted ankle and gasping for breath that tasted like defeat, tears streaming down my face as I understood that my brief flight toward freedom was nothing more than an illusion.
The chains are woven into my very soul, and they won't let me go.
[Frazier's POV]
I jolt awake on the couch with a sharp intake of breath, disoriented by a sudden pulse of pain that shot through what felt like a magical bond I didn't know existed. The sensation was alien and alarming—not physical pain exactly, but a distress signal that penetrated my consciousness like an alarm bell.
The disorientation lasted only moments before understanding crashed over me: the empty house, the open back door visible from where I sat, the magical tether pulling at my awareness like a rope attached to my chest.
Leiko had tried to escape, and whatever magical contract binds us together was now punishing her for that defiance while simultaneously alerting me to her location.
The guilt that had been eating at me since last night's violation transformed into something more immediate and urgent as I realized she's suffering because of choices I made—both the decision to assault her and the decision to purchase her in the first place.
I dressed quickly and followed the thread of magical connection that guided me across the open fields with unerring accuracy, the bond making finding her as easy as following a rope stretched between us.
As I walked, then jogged, then ran toward her location, I found myself unprepared for the intensity of the connection between us—I could feel echoes of her pain, her desperation, her despair bleeding through the magical link.
The weight of being responsible for another person's suffering settled over me like a physical burden, and I understood for the first time that owning a slave meant more than just having someone to command—it meant becoming complicit in a system designed to break human spirits.
I found her barely conscious in the tall grass, collapsed and gasping as she clutched her injured ankle, her body wracked with what I now recognized as the magical punishment for attempting to break our bond. The sight hit me with unexpected force.
She looked so small and vulnerable crumpled there in the morning sunlight, her face streaked with tears and grass stains, the oversized clothes I gave her twisted around her frame as she struggled to breathe through pain that I could feel echoing through our connection.
"I'm sorry, Master," she gasped when she saw me approaching, her voice weak but carrying a defiance that somehow made her apology sound more like an accusation. "I tried to run. I had to try."
The words hit me harder than any accusation could have, because they forced me to confront the simple truth that any reasonable person in her situation would do exactly what she did—try to escape from someone who had violated her.
The injury to her foot was obvious even from a distance—swelling and discoloration that spoke of real damage from her fall, the combination of magical punishment and physical trauma leaving her completely helpless.
As I knelt beside her, I could see the fear in her eyes as she watched my approach, clearly aware that her attempted escape might provoke anger or worse punishment. But instead of rage I felt the full weight of guilt settling in my chest as I witnessed the consequences of the magical system I've chosen to participate in.
This is what ownership really meant: not just having someone who must obey my commands, but bearing responsibility for their suffering when the magic that enforces that obedience punished them for being human enough to want freedom.
I began casting a healing spell before I even thought about it, my magic flowing from my hands with the same gentle warmth I used on her cuts the night before, trying to ease both the injury to her foot and the magical punishment that's still wracking her body.
"I'm going to carry you back to the house," I told her, keeping my voice carefully controlled. "We need to talk. And I promise..." The words stuck in my throat for a moment. "I won't do what I did last night. Not again."
The promise hung between us, fragile and uncertain, because I'm not sure I understood what drove me to assault her in the first place.
When I moved to lift her, she flinched instinctively, her whole body tensing as if preparing for another assault, and we both froze at her reaction as the weight of recent trauma made even necessary contact fraught with implications.
But practical necessity overcame fear, and I watched her force herself to relax as I lifted her carefully, her body rigid with controlled terror that somehow hurt more than her obvious physical pain.
As I carried her back toward the house through the tall grass, both of us silent with the weight of shared understanding about how much had changed between us, I realized that the magical bond connecting us was the least of the chains that now bound us together—we're both prisoners of what I've done.
[Leiko's POV]
Back at the house, Frazier placed me gently on the couch and immediately began gathering supplies to treat my injury with movements that were efficient and practiced, suggesting medical training or experience in dealing with wounds.
He boiled water, prepared a poultice using dried herbs and willow bark, and carefully wrapped my foot with clean cloth strips. The care he showed was professional and thorough, focused entirely on my physical wellbeing without any hint of the predatory behavior from last night.
The contrast between his gentle, healing hands and the memory of those same hands forcing themselves on my body created a dissonance that left me watching him with wary confusion.
The air between us remained heavy with unspoken words and unresolved trauma, but his actions spoke of genuine concern for my condition that seemed to go beyond simple maintenance of valuable property.
As he worked, I noticed details I missed before: the way his hands shook slightly when they weren't actively busy, the dark circles under his eyes that suggested he slept as poorly as I did, the careful way he avoided any contact that wasn't strictly necessary for medical treatment.
When he finished and stepped back, I realized that this contradiction—this capacity for both harm and healing—might be the most dangerous thing about him, because I couldn't be sure which version I'd encounter when he looked at me.
As my strength returned and the pain in my foot subsided to manageable levels, I felt compelled to address what happened—both my escape attempt and the events that drove me to risk magical punishment.
"I'm sorry I tried to run," I said, my voice stronger now but still careful. "But I couldn't stay here like this—trapped, violated, not knowing what to expect from you or what my life would be."
The words hung between us like a challenge, because even though I was apologizing for defying him, I was also stating clearly that his actions drove me to desperation.
He didn't respond immediately, still avoiding direct eye contact as if looking at me might trigger whatever impulses overcame him last night. When he finally spoke, the words came slowly and with obvious difficulty.
"I'm sorry too," he said, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying a weight of genuine regret. "For what I did last night. I crossed a line that should never be crossed, and I don't expect you to forgive me. But I am sorry."
The apology hung between us, inadequate but genuine, and I studied his face for signs of manipulation but saw only what appeared to be honest remorse mixed with confusion about his own behavior.
"Sorry doesn't change anything," I replied finally, the words coming out harsher than I intended but true nonetheless. "It doesn't give me back my choices or make me feel safe here, and it doesn't guarantee you won't do it again."
He nodded slowly, the movement heavy with acceptance of a burden he's only beginning to understand.
"I know," he said in a voice that suggested he was starting to grasp the magnitude of what he'd done—not just to me, but to both of us, because we're both trapped now in a situation that neither of us fully understood.
The silence that followed was different from the tense quiet of before—not quite comfortable, but no longer crackling with immediate danger. We're both wounded, both struggling with the reality of what we'd become to each other: master and slave, violator and victim, two people bound together by magic and circumstance.
It's not forgiveness. It's not trust. But it's the beginning of something—a recognition that we're going to have to find a way to coexist in this isolated house, that survival required some form of communication.
I didn't know what came next. I didn't know if I could ever feel safe with him, or if he could control whatever impulses drove him to assault me. But I knew that the magical chains binding me were unbreakable, that there truly was no way back to who I was before.
All I could do was try to move forward, one careful step at a time, in this new reality where freedom was an illusion and survival depended on learning to navigate the dangerous currents of a relationship built on ownership.
The brand on my neck ached as I settled back against the couch cushions, a reminder that no matter how civil our conversation became, the fundamental truth remained unchanged: I belonged to him, body and soul.
But maybe—just maybe—we could find a way to make this bearable. Not good, not right, but bearable.
It's not much of a hope, but it's all I had left.