This feels, in a lot of ways, terribly surreal. The battle that had sparked her to life in a way that she'd never felt before, the humiliation and hurt of her defeat, and of her capture. Now this shit, that she isn't quite sure how to categorise. Lenore's fingers trace along her shirt where fabric meets skin and again she swallows, thickly.

She's been on the receiving end of a multitude of commands throughout her life, and whilst generally she might carry them out, and only after a barrage of crude backchat...she has to admit to herself that the way Lenore says it is kinda hot. Familiarity clashes sharp against something entirely new. The 'I own you, you do as I say' inflection, a sentiment expressed to her so frequently that it should warrant only an eyeroll, except this time it’s commanded of her through soft and petal-coloured lips.

Ah, what the hell.

"Gideon," she answers, tongue feeling dry against the roof of her mouth, "It's Gideon Nav."