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I look again at the face of my slave, imagining for a moment her mind is not an unguarded port to her every dread. I imagine I cannot feel her conviction that it's not merely a matter of whether she will 8e put to the irons, 8ut how hot they will 8e if she fails to please. Poor thing. Her horns make attractive shapes and pair themselves pleasantly amidst her violent snarls of hair. Her fingers, which I have lost track of, to my surprise have come 8etween the petticoat and my skin. The heat of her touch tells me the likely range for the color of her 8lood. I wouldn't have guessed it to look at her, not with her sign stripped. Her mouth opens slightly and I squint. Ah! Razor sharp, and none missing. Perfect. How disappointing it is to find quivering lips hiding dull teeth. I pause to consider. What will her fear 8ecome if I choose to show her mercy later? And even, in days, kindness? Will this 8e the red dalliance that 8ecomes fully flushed? Love demands my cunning just as my raids. If it is to 8e, she will never understand how thoroughly she was manipul8ted, her 8ody, her mind, her devotion.