Some nights, the past claws its way back up whether you invite it or not.
"So yeah," I say, poking the fire with a bit of twig, "I've been whipped. Indenturned. Inden—Inden—whatever. You remember."
"Identured," the Dragon corrects, because of course he does.
I roll my eyes. "Yes, thank you, Professor Scales. Anyway. That. The first time, they usually just do a warning. You know—light touch, show of force. Enough to make your eyes water, not enough to ruin your market value."
He grimaces. "Charming."
"But," I say, wagging the twig for emphasis, "if you mess up again—oh boy. That's when they get serious."
The Dragon shifts, clearly uncomfortable. Not with me. With the reminder that he shares a world with people. "Go on," he says, voice like gravel dragged through wine.
"They rack you up proper. Stretch you out, tight like a harp string. Ankles and wrists strapped. Cold room. Smells like mildew and regrets. Then—" I flick my hand, miming the arc, "swish… ka-pow! Right across the back."
He huffs. "Savages."
"Or," I continue helpfully, "they make you bend over the table. You know. The one with the little groove in it so you don't chip your teeth if you scream too loud."
"That's enough," he says, tone hardening.
"Cane comes out. Long. Thin. Nasty little thing. Makes this whistle when it swings. And the sound is always worse than the sting—until it lands. Then you realize, no, the sting is also horrible."
His claws twitch. His tail thumps once, like he's trying to stay calm. Like he's breathing in through his nose and out through the pain of knowing this world.
I grin. "You ever been caned, big guy?"
He growls. "I've fought paladins, Saya."
"So… yes?"
"No."
"Shame. Some people pay good coin for it." I stretch, letting the hem of my tunic ride up just a little. "I got a pretty high pain threshold these days. Good training, I guess."
"You shouldn't say these things so lightly."
"Why not? It happened. I'm here. And you're not running away, so clearly I'm still charming."
He mutters something about the moral decay of civilization.
I toss the twig into the flames and lean back on my elbows. "It's just skin, you know? Skin heals. Eventually. Not like I let it break me."
"No," he says, eyeing me sideways. "You turned it into performance art."
"Exactly." I wink. "And now I can moan on command. With range."
He groans and curls tighter, tail over snout like he's trying to block me out.
I laugh. "You love me."
"I tolerate you," comes the muffled reply.
"That's basically love."
"The priestesses were the worst," I say, and I can hear my own voice go flat for a second. Just for a second. "Said it was a school. Sanctum for spiritual refinement or whatever. Hah."
"They told us pain builds character," I say. "I think it just builds scars."
I spit into the fire. It hisses like it agrees.
"I never went to real school," I go on, wagging a finger, "but if that was what schooling is like? Then no thank you. You can keep your chalkboards and your robes and your little sacred sticks for 'discipline.'"
The Dragon eyes me. Says nothing. Just lets me talk. He's good at that. Most of the time.
"After that came the madams. The pimps. Brothel keepers, auctioneers, handlers—whatever name they dressed it up with."
I grin without humor. "They weren't as bad. Not really. They don't want to break the merchandise. Hurts the coin. You don't rough up a roast you're planning to sell, right?"
Dragon grumbles. "That's… vile."
"Yeah, well, so's capitalism," I mutter. "Anyway. First time's a warning. The second time, maybe you get lucky. Third time? Fourth, if they're sentimental? That's it. Bit on the rack to shut you up. Remind you how bendy you can get when you're scared and shackled. Then it's the auction block."
I pause.
"I always hated the block."
Still quiet.
"They never tell you why they're selling you off," I say. "Not really. Just 'freshening up the roster,' they'd say. Smiles and perfume. Like we were some dish that went out of fashion."
I mimic their voice—bright and fake and sweet as spoiled cream: "Nothing personal, darling. Just making room for new talent. It's market cycles."
Then I drop the smile. "It's never 'the dumb bitch couldn't keep her mouth shut.' Or 'ran off again and bit a client.' Never that."
I pick at the hem of my skirt. One loose thread. One tiny snag. Feels symbolic, maybe.
"Always said I had promise," I add. "Potential. But somehow I always ended up on the cart again."
The Dragon exhales, slow and steady. A warm breeze across the campfire. He doesn't offer pity. Good. I'd bite him.
"Then I met you," I say, flopping onto my back, arms behind my head, looking up at the stars. "And somehow you're the one they call a monster."
He snorts. "I breathe fire. It's very dramatic."
"Yeah," I whisper. "But you never racked me."
Pause.
"Yet," he says darkly.
I don't say anything at first.
I just crawl over, slow and careful, like he might snap or grumble or roll away. But he doesn't. He just watches me with one of those tired, ancient expressions, like he's seen a thousand girls crawl toward a thousand fires, and none of them ever meant much.
I curl up beside him. Lay my head against the warm scale of his chest. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't sigh. Doesn't tell me to go sleep in my corner.
Progress.
I slip my arms around him. Lightly. Not tight. Not clingy. Just… there.
"Hey," I whisper. "You want me to call you Master?"
He groans. A deep, guttural, why-do-I-put-up-with-this sound that comes from somewhere near his spleen. If dragons have spleens.
"I never saw myself as much of a master," he mutters. "I'm a creature of primordial chaos. I eat princelings and shit nightmares. I'm an agent of entropy, not discipline."
I smirk into his chest. "So… no safe words?"
He lets out a long-suffering exhale. "I hoard gold. I read poetry. I once burned down a monastery because they mocked my sonnet. I don't do whips and collars."
"You could, though," I purr. "Big strong dragon. Voice like thunder. Could make a girl behave."
"Gods, spare me."
I shift, just enough to look up at him. "Everyone always wanted it, you know? Master. Mistress. Madam. M'lady. Your Grace. That one was popular with the barons' wives who thought slumming it meant ordering me to scrub their feet."
His eye flicks toward me. Not sharp. Just… there.
I shrug. "At some point it stops meaning anything. You say it, you curtsey, you get the coin. Or don't. And then you move on. Master. Owner. Buyer. Saint. Sinner. All the same in the end. People just want someone under them."
"And you?" he asks, voice soft now.
I grin. "I want someone beside me. But I'll call you Master if it gets me a bigger blanket."
He snorts.
I press my face into his chest, let the warmth seep into my bones. "You're the only one that never asked."
"Didn't think I needed to."
"You didn't."
Pause.
"…You can call me Sir, though," he adds.
I laugh.
The fire pops. A spark jumps. He curls his tail around me, too casually to be casual.