He binds my wrists with jute rope, his fingers leaving streaks of red, as he unknowingly paints with blood that is not my own.
Pitch-dark eyes stare at my face, like a merchant appraising fruit soon to spoil. I bare my filed teeth, watch him flinch.
He sees the wolf now, not a girl to pity, even as he puts the collar ‘round my throat. He pushes me into the flux of collared women, hastily grabs his coin, but he can’t escape my eyes. Can’t escape the promise that leaves my lips and splatters in the dirt.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: flux, jute, spoil)