Luneshale Pass colina

clean is not a cartel priority; soto has no idea of her wishes as he leads her from the banks. 

water sloughs off in heaps. soto likes her fur, but he likes the pleasing arc of her silhouette sodden more; there’s nothing left to the imagination, from the delicate curve of her inner thigh to the tight uptuck of her stomach. 

he follows the path out towards the floodplain. they walk past a garden rife with marks of his work. he pauses once, another deposit to make the cartel claim known. 

then he motions for her to still; he rifles through a den wafting with the scent of dried herbs and musk.

he brings her a dried packet of reeds, its edges folded and square. inside rattle the contents of green — hers, if she so pleases.