not for sale ; p. js ff

part 4

Their POV

The water is warm.

It slips down her bare body in slow rivulets, dripping from her ribs, her hips, the delicate hollows of her collarbones.

She stays still—silent, obedient, unresisting.

Hands move through her hair, strong but careful, massaging soap into her scalp. A man's hands.

She does not react.

Because this is normal.

Because she is not a person.

Because she is an object being cleaned.

Sunoo exhales through his nose, voice light as he drags his fingers through a particularly tangled section of her hair.

"This is a disaster."

Yina does not speak.

She does not need to.

He sighs, but there is no real exasperation behind it. Just mild amusement.

"Of all the things he could've done," he murmurs, mostly to himself, "he came home with a girl from an auction."

She hears the confusion in his voice.

As if even he, someone who has known Jay for years, cannot make sense of it.

The thought lingers as his hands work through the knots, untangling strands that have never been properly cared for.

"Do you know how many years I've been dealing with him?" Sunoo continues, rinsing the soap from her hair with slow, practiced movements. "And not once—not once—has he ever brought a woman here."

She doesn't react.

But he doesn't seem to mind.

"It doesn't make sense, does it?" He hums, tilting his head slightly as if assessing his own thoughts. "Jay doesn't like women."

His words do not carry malice. Just truth.

And yet, here she is.

In his home, being washed by his most trusted servant.

Sunoo doesn't press for an answer. He simply continues, his hands moving lower, dragging a cloth over her shoulders, down the fragile, yet full curve of her breasts.

His touch is firm but light. He does not hesitate, does not falter. Because she is not something to be embarrassed by.

She is merely a thing to be cleaned.

Sunoo shifts, kneeling beside the porcelain tub, his fingers wrapping effortlessly around her ankle.

She lets him lift her foot, drag the cloth over the ridges of her bones, the slight callouses on her heels.

His grip is gentle, but it still reminds her of the difference between them.

He is a man.

She is a naked woman.

And yet, it means nothing.

She knows this.

She has spent her life being handled and inspected naked either by ogling men with dark desires or calculative men without it meaning anything.

Still, something about Sunoo's kindness feels foreign.

It is not the kindness of someone who pities her. It is the kindness of someone who has already decided she is not a threat.