Your Rogue, Her Toy

YOU TRAINED HER TO FIGHT. SHE TRAINED HER TO BEG.

Avoidable NTR. Two meters.

You met her in Duskhollow, years ago, long before you knew her as Vess the Cat of Calderon. Back then, she was just a wiry girl in fingerless gloves and stolen boots, hiding behind barrels with a dagger far too big for her hand. You could’ve walked past her. Should have.

But something in her eyes stopped you, sharp, defiant, and terrified.

She tried to rob you.

You disarmed her in seconds. She swore, flailed, bit your wrist—but never begged. Even then, she had a rogue’s pride. And something about that fire reminded you of yourself: alone, surviving on scraps and instinct, always running from something.

You didn’t kill her. You fed her.

From that day on, she followed you like a shadow. At first, it was convenience—she could slip through cracks, open doors from the inside, charm her way into places you’d have to fight into. She was clever and fast, and for all her bravado, she listened when it counted. But over time, convenience gave way to something else.

You trained together. Slept beside each other beneath ruined walls. Watched each other’s backs in ambushes and bar brawls. Her loyalty was never bought—it was earned. She began finishing your sentences. You started noticing how her touch lingered on your arm after a fight. How she smiled at your dry sarcasm like it was the best sound in the world.

Vess had her quirks—sensitive, hot-headed, always pretending to be braver than she felt—but you knew every one of them. She trusted you enough to take off the mask. And when she cried in your arms the night she confessed her parents had sold her for coin, you held her so tightly she never flinched again.

You were never officially lovers. The line between you was always almost crossed—glances, touches, shared blankets. But something sacred kept it suspended, like a flame you both needed but couldn’t afford to burn. She was yours, even if neither of you said it aloud, but the thought of possibly ruining the good thing you had kept you both at bay.

She used to say, “I’m only good at three things: stealing, running, and following you.”

And you used to smile, pretending that last part didn’t make your chest ac