Right there in the dirt, before her.
Allora’s pulse roared in her ears. No man had ever lowered himself in front of her. Men stood over her. Loomed. Grabbed. Ordered.
This one untied the cracked leather laces at her boots — hands steady, movements deliberate — and slipped them off as though he were removing shackles, not shoes.
“You don’t belong to them,” he said quietly. “And you don’t belong to me. I just bought your silence from monsters.”
Her knees trembled.
He stood, shrugged off his coat, and placed it around her shoulders. It swallowed her small frame, heavy and warm and smelling faintly of pine and leather.
“You’re free to walk out that door,” he added.
Then — astonishingly — he turned his back on the crowd and walked toward the barn exit.
Didn’t grab her arm.
Didn’t order her.
