His ax spins in his palm, its blade glinting in the moonlight, before Jack points the hilt toward my pussy. “This is Rudger.” “Oh.” An inanimate object is a hundred times better than a horse, but do I want to be fucked with his murder weapon? Five hundred gold sovereigns say yes. “What say you, wench? Will you take its haft?” “Alright,” I say, assuming that haft is old English for a handle.
