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That pleases me more than it should, so I step farther into the room. “Do you?”

Her head turns slightly, not enough to face me but enough to warn. “I said no.”

“Yes. You have become fond of that word lately.”

Her fingers tighten over one another. “Leave.”

“Not yet.”

Morrigan rises, low and silent so I glance down. “If your cat attacks me, I will consider it emotional progress.”

Olive stands too quickly, the shawl slips from one shoulder. “Do not make this into a game.”

“It became a game the moment he convinced you that breathing quietly meant he had won.”

Her face goes still. A strike, not deep enough, but true.

“Stop,” she says. So, I walk closer, nice and slowly, because I want her to feel each step.

“Did you deserve it?”

The question lands between us with a sound no one else would hear. Olive’s eyes sharpen with offense. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” I retort.

Her lips part. No answer. So I give it teeth. “Did you deserve it? The room? The hands? The hunger? The blade? The pretty little dresses? The way he painted you until even the mirror lied?”

Her face drains of color. “Enough.”

“No.”

“Stop.” She warns.

“No.”

Her hand curls at her side. Good.

Good. A spark.

I move closer still. “Did you deserve to be abused, Olive?”

She flinches. Not away from me. Away from the word. Abused.

How strange, the power people give to names. They will live through horrors, wear them in their bones, wake screaming from them, but the moment the thing is named, they tremble as if language is the cruelest hand of all.

“Do not,” she whispers.

“Answer me.”

“No.”

“No, you will not answer, or no, you did not deserve it?”

Her eyes flash. “Do not twist my words.”

“Then use better ones.”

Morrigan snarls, I ignore the cat. Olive’s breath grows sharp. “I told you to stop.”