The choice was little enough choice at all; with the wound on her foot she was as good as hobbled, even if she were not wound in the vise of his arm and impaled upon him, and being traced over with the point of his knife.<br/><br/>"Your pet... I am your pet, human," she managed, before she began to weep, a deep sob of sorrow and gathering despair shaking her bosom under the light touch of his blade. To be anything other than his pet would meant o be his to abuse, to hurt - and already he'd shown himself very willing to do so, and very good at it.