Patent fear rolls down your spine. Like ice water. No, straight up ice. You can’t even swallow. Geese erupt across your flesh like an allergic reaction, hot spots abruptly forming beneath your skin. You can’t tell if it’s your body’s acute recollection of the previous crop’s parting gift or the anticipation of what’s to come with this new one.
The one you fear the most.
The image of the appropriately-named slapper crop sits in your direct line of view, displaying the crown from which it begets its cruel title.
Your pulse beats so hard in your throat it’s a wonder he doesn’t hear it. Frost doesn’t say anything, just looks down at you, his face still blank save his ever-icy eyes. Like he’s waiting for you to say something.
You’re not exactly sure what he expects. You don’t know why you should even have to say anything after he just happily snuffed out the sure embers of your decision. There are probably a hundred things you would like to say, but you can’t bring yourself to utter a single one, shock rendering you both speechless and immobile.