A rough laugh from somewhere behind them. A man’s voice: “A cow for a bride, Ezekiel! Fair trade if she milks herself!”
More laughter. Ezekiel’s face burned, but he didn’t turn around. He focused on Slade’s ring, on the gold teeth, on the way a man like Slade made everything feel like a trap even when it sounded like salvation.
“She’s willing?” Ezekiel asked quietly, forcing the words out like swallowing glass.
Slade’s smile returned, crueler now. “She knows her options. She knows mine. Besides… what choice do either of you have now?”
Ezekiel’s whiskey tasted suddenly like ash.
He should’ve walked out.
Voir la suite sur la page suivante:
