Involuntary. The sound came from somewhere that wasn't the rage—somewhere deeper, where the rope and the ring and the constant low-level stimulation had been building something the slave's mind was absolutely refusing to acknowledge.
The Mercenary Queen watched the sound happen.
Turned away.
Walked to the table against the wall.
The table held instruments in careful arrangement—organized with the same deliberate attention as the gown, as the mask. Every item placed. Every item purposeful.
She picked up the device.
An injector. Reinforced glass cylinder, maybe four inches long, sealed at one end with a formation plate and fitted at the other with a needle-less insertion nozzle. The fluid inside was visible.
'Green.'
