Lucy’s POV

The bucket of dirty water sloshed as I shuffled down the east corridor, my back aching from hours of scrubbing floors. Madam Victoria had been in a foul mood all day, snapping at everyone, assigning extra work to anyone who so much as looked at her wrong.

Something was happening in the upper levels. I’d seen guards rushing back and forth, heard doors slamming. A new group of slaves had arrived yesterday—mostly girls. They’d been taken straight to the bathing chambers for preparation.

For him.

I shuddered and focused on my task. Just empty the bucket, refill it, get back to scrubbing. Keep my head down. Stay invisible. That’s how you survived in this place.

The male servants’ quarters were at the end of this corridor—a cramped warren of cells where they kept the new caught male slaves, the ones deemed too weak for the mines or the fighting pits. I wasn’t supposed to be down here, but Madam Victoria had insisted the floors needed cleaning “top to bottom.”

As I passed one of the cells, I heard something that made me pause.

A sound. Soft. Muffled. Like someone crying, but not quite.

I stopped, frowning. The door was slightly ajar—unusual, since they usually kept the male slaves locked tight. Through the gap, I could hear ragged breathing, punctuated by small, desperate whimpers.

And something else. Something wet. Rhythmic.

Maybe one of them is sick.

I should just walk away. It wasn’t my business. But something about those sounds tugged at me—reminded me of things I’d tried to forget.

Setting down my bucket, I pushed the door open a fraction wider.

The cell was dark except for the moonlight filtering through a high window. At first, I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing—just a pale shape writhing on the straw pallet, limbs twisted at odd angles.

Then my eyes adjusted.

Oh God.

The figure on the bed wasn’t a boy at all.

Bare breasts, full and flushed with heat, rising and falling with rapid breaths. Narrow waist. The curve of hips. Long hair, darkened with sweat, splayed across the moldy straw.

A woman. A girl, really—couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen.

And she was completely naked, legs spread wide, one hand working frantically between her thighs while the other squeezed and pulled at her breast.

I could see everything in the moonlight. The way her fingers pumped in and out of her slick cunt, wetness coating her hand and dripping onto the straw. The way her hips bucked and ground against her palm. The way her swollen nipples stood out like dark peaks on her heaving chest.

Her eyes were closed, her mouth open in a silent moan, her face twisted in an expression that was equal parts agony and ecstasy.

“You’re…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing. “You’re a girl?”

They don’t know, I realized. They all think she’s a boy.

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