His eyes narrow, and for a moment I see something like real anger there. But he doesn’t strike, or even raise his voice. He sits again, gestures for me to do the same.
I perch on the edge of the trunk, knees pressed together, hands clasped.
Ash pours two fingers of whiskey into a tin cup, then slides it to me across the crate. “Drink,” he says. “You’ll need it.”
I pick up the cup, but do not drink.
He watches, mouth a hard line. “You want to know what I expect?” he says, voice soft now. “I expect you to obey, to do what you’re told, to keep your mouth shut unless it’s for a reason.”
I look him in the eye. “And if I don’t?”
He grins, all teeth. “Then I break you. But you knew that already.”
He sets his own cup down with a thud. “Why do you fight it?” he asks. “Why not just accept the
