And I had to ask myself now. If I couldn’t move without certainty. If I’d gotten to a place where I stood still, even stepped back, then what worth did life have—if it was such a stagnant place? Why even breathe, if risk existed in the exhale?
“Black silk,” I wheezed out.
“What?”
“I can’t do this without black silk. It’s a Jack thing.” I closed my eyes and would not. Absolutely would not tell him Jack’s rule.
She was adamant. A woman wore black silk when she wanted a man to take it off, toss it to the floor.
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Sue Wilder Writes 