“Forgive me,” she said, the words foreign and heavy.
Jane Clayton stood at the edge of the clearing, her khaki shirt torn at the shoulder, a thin line of blood tracing her collarbone. She had defied him—not out of malice, but out of a desperate need to prove that the civilization she had once known still lived inside her. She had walked into the native village alone, trading her father’s old compass for a tarnished locket, a trinket of the world she had left behind.
“I am not your property to be shamed,” she whispered, but her voice cracked.
“Forgive me,” she said, the words foreign and heavy.
Jane Clayton stood at the edge of the clearing, her khaki shirt torn at the shoulder, a thin line of blood tracing her collarbone. She had defied him—not out of malice, but out of a desperate need to prove that the civilization she had once known still lived inside her. She had walked into the native village alone, trading her father’s old compass for a tarnished locket, a trinket of the world she had left behind.
“I am not your property to be shamed,” she whispered, but her voice cracked.