He ushered her into the well-lit house, barring the heavy door behind them. It was a well kept home, considering the times. A small fire sputtered in the hearth and the furniture was worn but clean.
He took off his coat and hung it on the peg before addressing her with his dry but youthful voice.
“Take a seat. Rest. Dinner won’t take long.”
She didn’t move, and he sighed.
“Look, I get it.” He set his rifle against the wall. “You don’t know me, we’re alone, and you assume, correctly, that I’m more likely than not to be batshit insane.”
She cleared her throat.
“Yes. That’s it exactly,” she said, voice growing stronger. “How do I know you won’t rape me in my sleep, or torture me? Or eat me? How do I—”
“—know I won’t do all three?” he interrupted. “You don’t. You have to trust me.” Laughing, he continued. “And goodness knows I’m not going to eat you.”
He paused, noting her sudden increase in tension.
“Or rape and torture you, if you need the qualification.”
She shivered.
“I do,” she said. “I absolutely do.”