The Claimed: Rashika's Resistance

Chapter 7: Beautiful

Another borrowed gown fluttered around my ankles as I approached my third Coupling. Paranila had forced me to look at my reflection before leaving. According to Paranila, the pale pink of the dress contrasted perfectly with my dark skin, the white lace down back showed off my muscles and curves, and the two hair clips brought attention to the buoyancy of my tight curls. Gorgeous, she had said.

But I saw only an imposter.

Near the center of the circle, the same man from the week before served prak, clad in the same stained and torn tunic. A woman sat on a stump near him, twisting knobs to adjust the pitch as she plucked a string instrument. The bold red tent already propped tall just outside the field of dirt. I scanned the crowd for Izra, and my eyes caught on the open patches of dirt between gathered groups. Beneath my knees and palms, that dirt had been so cold, hard, and merciless.

I could not locate Izra among the crowd, but a different gaze met mine briefly—the short, curvy woman who had spoken to me before the episode the week before. Then her face twisted with disgust, and she turned away.

Shame seared my chest. Would Izra's face twist with a similar disgust? Or worse, would she eye me with pity?

Perhaps I could return to the King and tell him Izra had already selected a partner for the evening. I did not see Denavin either, so it was possible the two were already together in Izra's tent. Why not declare this a lost cause and escape this nightmare?

Then I pinched my thigh, a sharp nip of self-reprimand. The King deserved better than my weak excuses. So I pulled my shoulders back and strode toward Izra's tent.

At the entrance, I paused. I could not exactly knock on the tent. Was I supposed to rustle the flap or call her name? Interrupting her bedding another woman would certainly not gain her favor.

I stepped forward again and turned my head. With my ear inches from the flap, I heard the quiet scritch of a quill on parchment paper.

The scritch stopped, and the parchment shuffled. Then a hand shot out of the tent flap and snagged my arm, yanking me inside.

And a cold blade pricked my neck.

A sick rush of adrenaline stole my breath, and my muscles all seized up as I fought the instinct to defend myself. Black eyes met mine, cold and deadly. Then the eyes blinked, and the dirk lowered.

"Epsa?"

I drew in a breath and lifted a hand to wipe away the droplet of blood that had beaded up where her blade kissed my skin. "I apologize if I interrupted something."

Izra's emerald green gown slit open from the top down to her navel, a tantalizing gap laced together just tightly enough to preserve her modesty. Her hair hung loose once more, shiny black locks as defiantly straight as mine were curly.

Her eyes tracked my hand on my neck, but her expression remained distant and unreadable.

"Not at all, I am just a bit paranoid at times. Old habits." She tucked her dirk into her belt and took a step back, gaze flicking over me. "I didn't think you would come back after what happened last time."

My eyes darted to the pile of furs behind her, recalling how I had sunk into the pile and fisted the material at my sides, grasping at my last thread of sanity. The shame in my chest spread, prickling over my skin. How could she possibly want me after observing such a pathetic display?

Without lifting my gaze, I said, "I know I should be too embarrassed to show myself again."

A brief silence. Then quietly, "That's not what I meant."

"I understand if you no longer find me attractive."

Her knuckles brushed my cheek in a gentle caress, startling me into meeting her somber gaze.