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It was a two-room shack with a sagging roof and a door that didn’t latch right unless you shoved it with your shoulder. Somebody had tossed a straw mattress in the corner and called it “married accommodations” with a laugh sharp enough to draw blood.
Isaiah didn’t laugh.
He led Lillian inside and closed the door behind them, then pushed the latch into place with a careful firmness, like he was sealing a promise.
She stood in the center of the room, breathing fast. The air smelled of pine resin and old smoke and something damp under the floorboards. Her eyes darted to the bed, then to Isaiah’s hands, then back to the door as if she expected her father to burst in and announce she’d been traded again.
Isaiah took two steps backward and sat down on the floor, leaning his shoulders against the wall.
“I’m not touching you,” he said.
Lillian blinked.
He tilted his head, studying her expression as if he could read the words she’d swallowed for years. “I know what they think,” he continued. “They think you’re punishment. They think you’re bait. They think I’m supposed to break you so your father can sleep easy.”