“You were meeting them.”
I hold my breath. Let it out slowly. “ Oui .”
“Why do they want me?”
The wheel squeaks under the strain of my grip, my eyes grainy from lack of rest. I-90 must be the most uneventful highway ever conceived. Traveling through Idaho, Montana, a small corner of Wyoming, and finally our destination—South Dakota—will be a three-day drive.
But well worth it. If we can avoid immediate capture.
“What is your ethnicity?” I shoot back.
She laughs in disbelief. “What does my nationality have to do with anything?” Her eyebrow arches. “I'm American.”
“ Oui , but where do your people hail from?”
“My grandma was African-American,” she replies slowly. “I don't know much more than that.”
I smirk. “Ah. So what is the charming American colloquialism about woodpiles?”
“That's not even funny.” She seethes.
I laugh. If Marissa only knew how little prejudice I do possess—that any I might have harbored has been expunged from my person most thoroughly—she would not be offended.
“ La famille does not choose females who are any one ethnicity. They prefer a blended woman. One who has many different attributes. Beauty is key. But there are many unique male appetites which have to be considered.”
Marissa's hand smooths over her dark golden-blond hair. It springs up underneath her fingertips. Her face turns to look at me from under her eyelashes, but it's a hard stare—contemplative. “So because I look mixed, that's a plus.”
I ignore the disdain in her tone. “Apparently, as is your mastery of foreign language.”
“Not many people would see the color in me.”
Taking my eyes off the road, I scrutinize her. The hair is the dead giveaway, though the color is wrong.
Her body is beautifully fashioned, built for athletics, and though she has the look of delicacy of bone, harder genetics are at play. Ones that speak to a darker beauty. Her full lips pout above a defined jaw. A dark ring surrounds her smoke-colored irises. Skin like mocha kissed by bone dust showcases her lighter hair color to a T .
My perusal is only seconds but takes in much. I return my gaze to the interstate. “It is a subtle exoticism. But it is present.” I clear my throat, and my voice is rough, even to my own ears. “Our former king was partial to all women of color, though in his case, the darker the better.”
“Prejudiced bastard,” she says in a low voice.
I do not deny the sentiment. “Yes.” But Roi was so much more. “Amongst other things.”
“Where are we going?” she asks again.
“South Dakota.”
She flops her head back against the seat rest. “What? The Midwest. Gah.”
I chuckle. “Why is the center of America a bad thing?”
“No mountains, no water. How do people—how can they stand being landlocked?”
“There are mountains and water. You would do well to think in the same terms my mother used with me. Bloom where you are planted.”
She gives me a withering look. “Uh-huh.”
“You do not have family?” My eyebrow quirks.
“Nope.” Marissa looks away. “My parents died when I was thirteen.”
I say nothing at first. The parallels are a terrible reality between us. I do not examine them too closely.
After a minute of silence, I finally confess the similarity in a quiet voice. “My parents were taken when I was eight years old.”
Her face whips to mine. Shadows are deep voids cast by the highway lamps that strobe their false illumination inside the car.
One gray eye that is darkened to black from the dim interior blinks at me. “Taken?”
“Killed. I was placed in an orphanage.”
I watch her nervous swallow and glance back at the road.
“I'm sorry,” Marissa says. A handful of seconds slide by, and she asks the question no one ever has, in a voice like a thread. “Did the men come for you?”
The car swerves when buried panic awakens inside, taking me by complete surprise as the foreign emotion threatens to overwhelm
I hold my breath. Let it out slowly. “ Oui .”
“Why do they want me?”
The wheel squeaks under the strain of my grip, my eyes grainy from lack of rest. I-90 must be the most uneventful highway ever conceived. Traveling through Idaho, Montana, a small corner of Wyoming, and finally our destination—South Dakota—will be a three-day drive.
But well worth it. If we can avoid immediate capture.
“What is your ethnicity?” I shoot back.
She laughs in disbelief. “What does my nationality have to do with anything?” Her eyebrow arches. “I'm American.”
“ Oui , but where do your people hail from?”
“My grandma was African-American,” she replies slowly. “I don't know much more than that.”
I smirk. “Ah. So what is the charming American colloquialism about woodpiles?”
“That's not even funny.” She seethes.
I laugh. If Marissa only knew how little prejudice I do possess—that any I might have harbored has been expunged from my person most thoroughly—she would not be offended.
“ La famille does not choose females who are any one ethnicity. They prefer a blended woman. One who has many different attributes. Beauty is key. But there are many unique male appetites which have to be considered.”
Marissa's hand smooths over her dark golden-blond hair. It springs up underneath her fingertips. Her face turns to look at me from under her eyelashes, but it's a hard stare—contemplative. “So because I look mixed, that's a plus.”
I ignore the disdain in her tone. “Apparently, as is your mastery of foreign language.”
“Not many people would see the color in me.”
Taking my eyes off the road, I scrutinize her. The hair is the dead giveaway, though the color is wrong.
Her body is beautifully fashioned, built for athletics, and though she has the look of delicacy of bone, harder genetics are at play. Ones that speak to a darker beauty. Her full lips pout above a defined jaw. A dark ring surrounds her smoke-colored irises. Skin like mocha kissed by bone dust showcases her lighter hair color to a T .
My perusal is only seconds but takes in much. I return my gaze to the interstate. “It is a subtle exoticism. But it is present.” I clear my throat, and my voice is rough, even to my own ears. “Our former king was partial to all women of color, though in his case, the darker the better.”
“Prejudiced bastard,” she says in a low voice.
I do not deny the sentiment. “Yes.” But Roi was so much more. “Amongst other things.”
“Where are we going?” she asks again.
“South Dakota.”
She flops her head back against the seat rest. “What? The Midwest. Gah.”
I chuckle. “Why is the center of America a bad thing?”
“No mountains, no water. How do people—how can they stand being landlocked?”
“There are mountains and water. You would do well to think in the same terms my mother used with me. Bloom where you are planted.”
She gives me a withering look. “Uh-huh.”
“You do not have family?” My eyebrow quirks.
“Nope.” Marissa looks away. “My parents died when I was thirteen.”
I say nothing at first. The parallels are a terrible reality between us. I do not examine them too closely.
After a minute of silence, I finally confess the similarity in a quiet voice. “My parents were taken when I was eight years old.”
Her face whips to mine. Shadows are deep voids cast by the highway lamps that strobe their false illumination inside the car.
One gray eye that is darkened to black from the dim interior blinks at me. “Taken?”
“Killed. I was placed in an orphanage.”
I watch her nervous swallow and glance back at the road.
“I'm sorry,” Marissa says. A handful of seconds slide by, and she asks the question no one ever has, in a voice like a thread. “Did the men come for you?”
The car swerves when buried panic awakens inside, taking me by complete surprise as the foreign emotion threatens to overwhelm
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