What was I allowed to order? What would he approve of? Did good girls get elaborate drinks or simple ones? The menu swam before me, options multiplying into impossibility.
"I... um..." Words failed. The barista's smile faltered. People shifted impatiently behind me. The weight of decision pressed down until I could barely breathe.
"Just a latte?" I managed finally, voice pitched high and uncertain. "Please? If that's okay?"
"Of course it's okay." The barista looked concerned now. "What size?"
Another decision. Another opportunity to fail. I pointed randomly at the menu, paid with shaking hands, fled to wait for my order near the pickup counter.
Pathetic.But even the internal criticism came in his voice now. Disappointment at my inability to function, balanced with understanding that I was trying. Always his voice, even in my own head.
"Latte for..." The barista paused, checking the order. "Lilah?"
That name felt like a slap. I reached for the cup, mumbled thanks, turned to leave—
And collided with solidchest.
"Oh!" The impact sent me stumbling. Hot coffee sloshed, burning my hand, and the cup fell. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Hey, easy." Male hands steadied me. Male voice, amused and interested. "No harm done. Let me buy you another—"
I looked up and made the mistake of meeting his eyes. Saw the shift when he registered my panic as something else. When he noticed the dress, the soft posture, the trained submission written in every line of my body.
"Actually," his grip tightened slightly, "you seem upset. Why don't we sit down? I'll keep you company."
"No, thank you, I—"
"I insist." He was already steering me toward a table, using size and assumption to override my weak protests. "Pretty thing like you shouldn't be alone when you're shaking like that."
The old Lilah would have kneed him in the balls. Would have cursed him out, made a scene, established boundaries with violence if necessary. But the old Lilah was dead, and Bunny only knew how to yield to male authority.
"Please," I whispered, hating how the word came out pleading rather than firm. "I need to go."
"In a minute." He boxed me into a corner booth, blocking escape. "What's your name, sweetheart?"
"I..." The trained response rose automatically.Whatever you want it to be.I bit it back, tasted blood, tried again. "Please let me leave."
"So polite." His hand found my knee under the table. "I like that. Don't see many girls with manners anymore."
My body betrayed me completely. Instead of fighting, I froze. Instead of screaming, I went silent. Every defense mechanism replaced by trained compliance, waiting for someone to tell me how to respond.
"You're shaking." His hand climbed higher. "Let me help you relax."
"Hey! What the fuck?"
The familiar voice cut through my paralysis. Marcus—bartender from my old job, all tattooed arms and protective fury—appeared like an avenging angel. He grabbed the man's wrist, twisted until he released me.
"I suggest you leave," Marcus growled. "Now. Before I decide to get unfriendly."
The man postured briefly but Marcus had six inches and fifty pounds of muscle on him. He left, muttering about cock-blocking white knights. I stayed frozen in the booth, unable to process the sudden shift.
"You okay?" Marcus turned to me, concern replacing anger. "That asshole didn't—holy shit. Lilah?"
The disbelief in his voice made me curl smaller. He stared like I'd grown extra limbs, taking in the dress, the soft hair, the complete absence of armor I'd worn like skin.
"What the fuck happened to you?" He slid into the booth across from me. "You look... Jesus, you look like a completely different person."
"I..." Words wouldn't come. How to explain? How to justify this transformation to someone who'd known the before version?
