There Mr. Darius Carrington, second in line to the Carrington fortune, laid. Prone. Under Zechariah’s polished shoe. Hair astray, flustered. He stood silently a moment, gloating. Reveling in this short-lived victory. Admiring how much better gentry looked crushed under his heel.

He might have even gotten a little hard.

Zechariah spat at Darius’ face, then wiped his mouth dry.

“You look good like this.”

Then, he wiped the bottom of his shoe clean on Darius’ chest and left.