"Please... don’t..."

Lilitha looked up at the man before her, clutching Rogue’s wrist with both hands as tears streamed down her face.

Last night flashed in her mind—the same shadowy figure trying to snatch her pendant. Waking up changed nothing.

Rogue snorted coldly. His gaze flicked from the coarse cloth covering Lilitha to her hands gripping his wrist. His fingers tightened abruptly on the pendant chain.

This time, Lilitha understood. Frantically, she shoved the rough blanket aside, leaving her completely bare as she begged again. Only then did Rogue release his grip.

No need to push too hard. Letting her interpret his desires and act on them—that was the real goal now.

When Lilitha instinctively covered her chest and pendant again, Rogue’s frown deepened. He pried her hands away. She struggled. He didn’t rush. Each time she resisted, he forced her hands open—and struck her with his free hand.

The pendant. Her shame. Even this bare body—they belonged to him. Only by pleasing her master could she earn the right to "choose" or "ask." That was the lesson.

After relentless resistance proved futile, Lilitha finally stilled. She lifted her head, no longer hiding her chest or pendant. Fear flooded her eyes, her long silver lashes trembling slightly.

Only then did Rogue produce a wooden chamber pot, placing it before her.

It was identical to the ones used by demon hounds outside. Recognizing it, Lilitha stared at Rogue, confusion warring with dread.

He pointed at the pot. The meaning was clear.

Lilitha bit her lower lip, her whole body shaking. At her age, shame ran deep. Thanks to the Dragon Clan’s resilient physique—and a night of rest plus magic-infused herbs—her strength had returned. The thought of relieving herself before another person revolted her.

Rogue waited silently, his oppressive presence making her heart race.

They remained locked in stalemate.

Rogue wasn’t a pervert. A girl this young held no appeal. He was simply taking the fastest route to "tame a pet."

Shame served no purpose.

It might be avoidable here—but what about after he presented her to Lady Aria?

Any flaw, any dissatisfaction from Lady Aria, would seal Lilitha’s fate: death, sale to depraved nobles, or worse.

After a tense pause, Rogue’s expression turned impatient. He reached for her pendant. Lilitha shrieked, flinching into action.

From the phantom text only he could see, Rogue knew she’d been holding it in. His pressure merely forced the inevitable.

It was quick. Afterward, Rogue produced a wooden bucket. Filling it with water via magic, he lifted Lilitha and dropped her inside, scrubbing her roughly.

Bathing. Brushing teeth. Washing her face. He aimed for cleanliness.

She struggled fiercely. Water splashed wildly. Rogue didn’t care. Mistakes demanded punishment.

Each time Lilitha thrashed, his fingers dug into her—her side, her cheek, her chest. Hard enough to draw sharp cries. He avoided her wounds while systematically stripping away her shame.

This punitive bath took longer than last night’s. But the result was a cleaner, more presentable slave.

Rogue ordered Unit One to dispose of the mess. From his spatial pouch, he pulled out a small stool and placed a slice of bread on it.

Lilitha’s morning meal. Barely the size of an adult’s palm, only two centimeters thick. A meager portion—especially for a dragon.

Her eyes flared with hunger at the sight. But one glare from Rogue made her shrink back, her thick tail curling tightly around herself.

Rogue adjusted her posture. Each time she resisted, his fingers pinched her flesh.

Finally, he shaped her into a begging pose—like a well-trained pet: kneeling with legs folded beneath her, arms crossed modestly over her chest, small fists resting on her thighs, head lifted slightly as if awaiting food.

She wasn’t accustomed to the position. Rogue corrected every twitch patiently, the process stretching over thirty minutes, leaving her skin dotted with red marks.

Only then did he sit on the stool. He tore off a tiny piece of bread, placing it on his fingertip before her lips.

Fear lingered in Lilitha’s eyes—fear of losing her pendant, fear of his pinches. But hunger won. She leaned forward, taking the bread from his finger with her teeth. Her tiny fangs scraped his skin. Biting, not licking. A small sting. Disobedience.

Rogue pinched her chest. Then, before her eyes, he tore off another piece of bread and tossed it onto the floor outside the warehouse.

Lilitha didn’t understand. After two more bites that grazed his finger—and two more pieces discarded—her expression shifted.

Wrong moves meant pain. Wrong moves meant hunger.

She was beginning to grasp his unspoken rules.

During the feeding, she grew careful. She learned: no biting his fingers, no wasted bread, no punishment.

Piece by piece, over ten minutes, the bread vanished. Lilitha’s eyes still burned with hunger.

Rogue only shook his head. He pulled out a waterskin, cupping her chin with one hand to tilt her face up slightly.

Remembering the bread lesson, Lilitha opened her mouth obediently, closing her eyes. She leaned forward just a fraction, the tip of her pink tongue peeking out.

Rogue was surprised. Such compliance. The raw terror and despair in her eyes had faded.

Prisoners had broken under his methods before, submitting out of sheer exhaustion. But Lilitha’s obedience felt different.

*Training and torture truly are distinct arts,* Rogue mused. *This requires study. Today’s progress must be recorded.*

For the first time, he felt genuine interest in this work.