Iris felt her heart ache, a deeply human experience,  and reached to clutch at the fabric of Naella's dress at her chest. "I'm not an angel." Naella said, with the kind of tone that said she'd tucked his words into her memory like a treasure. Had Naella always been so starved for his approval, too? Had he cared? Even Iris could not have known it, because his blood and their bond twisted in knots over the blonde-haired girl. Iris had, perhaps, brought him a face she'd not fully understood how to wear.<br/><br/>He own self-doubt wrenched toward fear when he accused her of deception. It was false, because Iris had only ever been the things he wanted. It was all she had ever been made to be. In her scantly lived existence, she had not learned to lie to him. Rather, the nymph was learning what it was that Kedrick knew well how to lie to himself. "I am, but maybe you'd rather not hear it?" she offered, and her cheeks burned with the suggestion. His grip on her shoulder sucked any challenge out of her, blinking in surprise and then against the sting of tears as she was sent reeling again. A sharp gasp and a tumble, punctuated by the too-loud shear of the fabric Naella had loved. Iris would wear constellations on her bruised flesh. Naella bruised easily too. "Brother?!" she heard the cry from her own lips at the same moment the hard floor shoved the breath from her lungs. She flailed, and then groped at the torn dress to cover herself. She had thought to call him Master.<br/><br/>Naella's blue eyes were wide with fear, as if his outrage were inconceivable. Hadn't he asked her to tell him what he wanted? It was his Naella's truth, whether he'd understood the formation of it or not.  Iris was a creature birthed into service and a doglike desperation to please. This was some strange psychological torture for them both, his afflicted and shifting moods. The nymphs were deeply sensitive to the truth of their masters. For that reason, it was a modern rule under the humane treatment of magical entities that required nymph-buying hopefuls to meet certain standards of self-acceptance and stability. Money had often led companies to look the other way, though, and Kedrick had never even been asked. Iris, then, had been fated to fall into the chasm of this twisting bond that was her only obsession and her loss of self. It was haunting to see that kind of confusion flash in marks of terror in his bright sister's eyes.  "Don't!" he said, like she had a choice, and it was thoroughly Naella that began to cry big, frustrated tears at his sputtering indecision.<br/><br/>"Don't ask me if you don't want to know!" she yelped, voice hitching as it did in her childhood tantrums.  "It's always about you!" Naella there, too, and it was novelty to Iris when it rolled off her own tongue. She did not know if he would have liked to hear his sister despair. It was a conflict more true to the girl and less in line with the creature his soul dreamed of. But then, it seemed, to give him everything without bending to the ridiculous constructs of his social reality would have her punished.  "Isn't it what you want?" she was growing wild in her confusion, gaze darting between that severe promise in the tight span of his pants and his more threatening stare. Iris did not understand, but his blood--in her and in him--was intent to encourage the encroaching break.<br/><br/>Iris had gone to pick herself up off the ground, still fumbling to cover Naella's exposed breast, when he grabbed for her again. This time, catching a fist-full of her white-blonde hair, Naella shrieked. Her head jerked hard before her body followed, bare feet stumbling the five steps it took to slam her hipbones against the table's edge and double her over its impartial surface. How terrible it felt, and yet Iris could feel a surge of confidence in the wake of his barreling fury. He was so much less conflicted when he was angry. His hands around Greta's throat, Iris had felt honesty in the friction of their bodies. He had wanted, rather needed, that base and savage catharsis. She was salivating now too, even as Naella was beginning to sob, for the shared pinnacle of his relief. She could revel in his undone inhibitions even as it assured various forms of her own destruction. The distressing duality of the nymph's singular purpose left soaked traces on Naella's worn panties, the thin fabric clinging possessively to the welcoming shape of her sex.<br/><br/>When he tore the lewd article down around her knees, she panicked on the table. To expose her was to see the assured shame of the nymph's anticipation and Naella's horror at the same. What sort of man reveled in his darling sister's anguish? And yet, before she could wriggle off the table, his palm was colliding hard with her bare skin. Naella's skin wore his imprint well, smarting red and angry on the third blow. She was crying, lips slick with her own spit as she writhed and wailed and begged him to stop. His accusations were unnecessarily cruel, when the nymph could neither confirm nor deny them. She was as much his sister as he'd ever truly believed Naella could be his. She was as much not as pressing member suggested he needed as an excuse. "Please, what have I done wrong?" she gasped, still sobbing because she did not know if she was meant to be miserable or delighted any more than she was certain which face and voice he wanted contorted around her cries.