Washed away

“Sarcasm, my Lord?” She asked meekly before she could catch herself. She held her breath, waiting for the blow. This was why her back was a mess, her flesh more hamburger then wolf. Her damn tongue was going to be the death of her one day. 

His room? So she was to be his play thing, was she? It made sense. He did say his healing services were expensive. He'd want to get the most out of his work. He seemed less..  abrasive than most. Perhaps while she was busy entertaining him, it would buy her time before she had to work for the apparently more fearsome Warlord. Her survival instincts were often faulty, but something told her it would be a good idea to stick close to this wolf.

She was wondering what might help her keep her distance from the Warlord when his next words registered. Did they really expect the slaves to buy what they were selling? Slaves didn't get promoted into the ranks. They were bred, trained, and beaten down. What slave master would lose his profit that way? His pretty words stunk like shit. Annoyed by the false promise, she smiled at him. “My last master said the only reason they kept me alive was because I was an interesting fuck. Do you think that's a transferable skill, my Lord?” She asked. Her voice sweet as honey, a lure full of poison.