“I am not your property to be shamed,” she whispered, but her voice cracked.
“Forgive me,” she said, the words foreign and heavy. tarazan shame of jane
The word hit her like a slap. Shame. She had never heard it from his lips. In the house of Lord Greystoke, shame was a silk noose, a whisper at dinner. Here, it was a raw blade. “I am not your property to be shamed,”
“Who you were,” Tarzan repeated, dropping silently to the earth. He walked toward her, each step a controlled storm. “You were a woman who understood the law of the jungle: do not take what is not yours. Do not trade fear for a trinket. You shamed yourself before the elders. Worse—you shamed me.” Here, it was a raw blade
And in the silence that followed, the jungle breathed again.
“You are not of the village,” he said, his voice a low rumble that did not rise above the hum of insects. “You are not of the white men’s towns anymore. You are of the tribe. My tribe.”