Williams stood by the wide, arched window of the house, his hands folded behind his back in a seemingly casual stance, though tension coiled in his muscles like a spring ready to snap. The wind was soft, rustling through the nearby palm fronds, carrying with it the faint scent of fish from the riverbank and distant wood smoke from open fires.
But his eyes were glued to Dera.
She walked with a grace that could only be described as poetic, her steps sure but fluid, her pants, no matter how loose it was, hugged her hips in a way that made it hard for him to look away. The sun spilled golden over her skin, highlighting the smooth sway of her hips with every step she took. Even from afar, he could recognize the determination in her gait as she made her way toward the river, where her uncle and Dexter waited.
They had reached an understanding.
