Iris didn't answer immediately. She stood there, breathing hard, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Her mind screamed at her. 'You're weak... You're compromised...'
'He's inside you even when he's not.' The shame burned hotter than the pain.
She felt exposed, as if the junior guard could see through her training leathers and see the bruises on her hips, see the dried semen staining her skin, and see the utter ruin of her dignity.
"Fuck," she hissed internally, the curse echoing her own self-loathing.
She felt like a fraud, a broken weapon pretending to still be sharp.
"Fine," Iris said aloud, her voice clipped and dangerously cold.
She forced herself to reset her stance, her boots scraping against the stone floor with unnecessary aggression. "Again."
"But—" the boy started, hesitating. "That was a clean hit... I shouldn't have--"
