Still no response, Tila's face stone, her grip on the fork white-knuckled, her tail swishing faintly.
"Actually," Rhea leaned in, her voice teasing, "do we need to feed you in a bowl now? Kael, you want me to grab one?"
Tila didn't speak, her black eyes burning, her mind clearly elsewhere—on the plug, on every tiny shift of her body, every movement amplifying the pressure, the humiliating awareness of her role.
She focused on chewing, swallowing, refusing to make a sound.
The meal wound down, plates half-empty, cups drained, the table settling into a quiet lull. Kael stood, his hazel eyes gleaming, his voice casual but firm.
"Tila," he said, "clean the table and wash the dishes."
Tila looked up at him, her black eyes wide, her face twisting as if he'd told her to bathe in acid.
The tail swished behind her, a silent protest.
"You're my maid," Kael added simply, his grin teasing, his hazel eyes locking onto hers.
A long pause stretched, the table's eyes on her.
