Page 38 of Chosen By Swift

She lifted her gaze and met his stony expression. She couldn’t tell what he was feeling, and it terrified her. He took a step toward her, and she fought every self-preservation instinct that urged her to run. Swift was taller and stronger than her father. If he took a strap to her, he would easily break her skin and add another layer of scars to her already marked body.

Her hands trembled at her sides, and she squeezed them into fists. Swift moved closer, but she couldn’t look at his face. She dropped her gaze to his chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed his arm lifting, and she tensed, stiffening her jaw in preparation for a strike.

But it never came.

Instead, Swift cupped her cheek. Gently, he commanded, “Look at me.”

Unable to refuse him, she lifted her gaze to his. His expression remained indecipherable, but the tender stroke of his thumb along her chin soothed her raw nerves.

“You can yell and insult me all day and night, Alys. I’m a grown man, and I can handle it.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have—”

“You should have,” he insisted. “You were right to say it.” He let his hand fall to her shoulder. “I have certain views about things that won’t align with yours, and I’m sure you’ll have views that won’t align with mine. We’re from two different cultures, and we’re going to have problems like this crop up from time to time.”

“But—” She stopped herself.

“But?” When she didn’t immediately answer, he prompted, “Tell me, Alys.”

“But prostitutes? How is that acceptable in any culture?”

“We don’t consider poppies to be prostitutes the way you would. They’re women who choose to exchange their company for compensation.”

“That’s playing games with word meanings,” she argued.

“I suppose, but the meaning to us is different and it matters.”

“Are they...?” Alys didn’t want to ask, but she had to know. “How old are they?”

“The poppies? The minimum age for entering a contract is twenty-three.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose. They’re usually very young and very poor back home.”

His eyebrows lifted. “You know prostitutes?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “The last two times I visited Aunt Jimmie in Batt’s Ferry, she took me to a home she supports. They offer housing and work and maternity care to young women who are in trouble.”

“In trouble?”

“Pregnant,” she clarified. “They were all so young. Younger than my sister.”

“How old is your sister?”

“Eighteen. Barely,” she added. “But these girls were fourteen and fifteen. A few were older, closer to my age, but overall, they were young.” She swallowed and tried to shake the awful memories of those girls. “I understand you have different ideas about these things, but I will never change my mind on this. Prostitution hurts women.”

Swift exhaled slowly. She searched his eyes, trying to figure out what he was thinking. Finally, he said, “Yes, I can see that. I believe that my experiences with poppies was consensual in every way and the compensation for their time was fair.”

“I’m sure you do.”

He winced. “But I can see how that distinction doesn’t matter to you. So—what do we do now?’

Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“This is obviously a hard line for you.”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean...?” He seemed unable or unwilling to finish the question. “Do you want to start the Discard paperwork?”

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