Is that what he'd done? Refined rather than removed? The thought sparkled through trauma fog, bright and dangerous.
"Fine." She grabbed my arm, tried to force me down. "We can do this the—"
"No."
The word came out quiet but firm. Not the old Lilah's snarl, not Bunny's whisper, but something between. Something new.
She blinked, genuinely surprised. "Excuse me?"
"You're not broken. You're focused."
More of his words, flooding back now. All the times he'd praised my strength even as he taught me to kneel. How he'dcalled me fierce even when I was soft in his arms. The way he'd looked at me like I was dangerous despite my submission.
"I said no." Stronger this time. I pulled my arm free, gentle but deliberate. "I'm not sitting. Not waiting. Not being good for you."
"Oh, this is adorable." But uncertainty flickered beneath her mockery. "The kitten thinks she has claws."
"Being mine doesn't mean being weak."
The revelation hit like lightning. He hadn't made me weak—he'd made me his. There was a difference. A crucial, life-saving difference I'd been too lost in grief to see.
Gabriel Mire, who could have chosen any broken thing to rebuild, had chosen the angriest woman in the facility. Had spent weeks carefully preserving that rage even as he taught me to channel it. Had fallen in love with—or become obsessed by—not my compliance but my core.
Which remained unchanged. Refined. Focused.
But not removed.
"You're wrong," I told her, told myself, told the ghost of him living in my bones. "About everything. About him. About what he made me. About what I can or can't do."
She laughed, but it sounded forced. "Really? Then why did you let me in? Why did you come so easily?"
"Because I hoped." The admission hurt but felt necessary. "Because part of me wanted to believe he'd sent you. Becausethree weeks alone had made me desperate enough to ignore obvious lies."
"Your submission is a gift. Never forget that you choose to give it."
Choose. The word resonated through memory. How many times had he reminded me? That kneeling was choice. That obedience was decision. That I gave him control—it wasn't taken.
Which meant I could choose not to give it to her.
"But you're here now," she pointed out. "Miles from anywhere. No phone. No way to call for help. Even if you've found some backbone, what exactly do you plan to do?"
Good question. The old Lilah would have attacked already, all violence and no strategy. Bunny would have folded, submitted, accepted her fate. But I was neither anymore. I was what he'd made—something between, something refined.
"I'm going to leave," I said simply. "You're going to let me. Because whatever you think you know about Institute girls, you're wrong about one thing."
"Oh? What's that?"
"You're mine forever. That comes with responsibilities. For both of us."
The memory of that promise, spoken against my skin, burned through me. Not abandonment—protection. Not disposal—trust. He'd known I was strong enough to handle three weeks alone. Known I'd survive the test. If that what I wanted to call it, a test.
Known I'd remember who I was when it mattered.
"We weren't all made the same." I stepped backward, toward the hallway I'd memorized on entry. "Whoever trained the girls you've taken before? They weren't Gabriel. And I'm not them."
Movement upstairs. Heavy footsteps. Her client, coming to inspect his purchase. Time running short, but panic didn't touch me. Just clarity. Just purpose.
Just the absolute certainty that Gabriel hadn't spent twelve weeks building something disposable.
