Absolutely perfect.
She moves into the center of the performance space with a grace I've spent two weeks training into her.
Stands with perfect posture and waits for my command.
"Kneel."
She drops to her knees fluidly, gracefully.
No hesitation.
Looks up at me with eyes that show devotion I don't deserve.
"Present yourself."
She moves into the position—hands behind her head, chest thrust forward, spine arched.
Holds it without trembling. Without struggle.
Perfect.
"Come here."
She rises and crosses to me with steps that don't falter.
Kneels between my legs without being told.
Looks up at me waiting for the next command, and something in my chest cracks.
Because she's not just performing.
She's giving herself to me completely, willingly, in front of the imaginary audience.
Proving she's mine in every way that matters.
And watching her do it makes me want to burn down the Consortium and every man who would dare look at her like this.
"Tell me who you belong to," I say, my voice rougher than intended.
"I belong to you, Vaughn Sutherland. I'm yours. Completely yours."
"Would you do this in front of sixty strangers?"
"If that's what you need me to do."
"Why?"
"Because I want to make you proud. Because I want to be perfect for you. Because I—" She stops.
"Because you what?"
"Because I love you."
The words hang in the air between us.
Everything stops.
"What did you say?"
