“I take that personally,” the leader drawls, but there’s an undercurrent of real anger there. Embarrassment, maybe. And then there’s a man on top of Carver, grinding against him. Bearing him down hard.

Carver twitches, fighting to get his breathing under control. He’s been beaten before. Pistol whipped. But this—

Don’t think about it, Carver orders himself. Don’t think about it, as someone works his belt open. Don’t think about it.

The leader shifts. Crouching down in front of Pope. “You like this one,” he observes. “That’s sweet. Think he’ll beg?”