Dane's POV:
"What the fuck do you mean?" I say calmly.
Calmly, like my hand isn't already sliding under my jacket, fingers searching for the cold reassurance of metal.
Perrin leans back in his chair like he's a man in a tavern and not a rat in a holding room.
The light above him is too harsh, turning his skin waxy, highlighting every crease, every stain of age. His eyes are sharp though.
Too sharp. They flick over me like he's tasting my reaction.
"Aye, listen," he starts, voice wet and smug, like he's doing me a kindness.
"Shipment of gals goes out from the borders of Blutfurt. We take the gals and move 'em to Hohenmark."
"They go in at the outhouse where all the breeding gals are taken," he continues, scratching at his jaw.
"You… if your batch of gals ripe enough, you get in. You gotta be… what do they call it…"
He squints up at the ceiling like the word is hiding up there.
