The Claimed: Rashika's Resistance

Chapter 13: The Traitor

The moment I entered the Coupling, watchful eyes tickled my skin. A quick side-glance as a mug of prak tilted against lips. A fleeting pause in the middle of an eye roll. A swinging gaze as a head tipped back with laughter. Not looks of desire but something much more calculated... something planned.

Izra's spies? Or the King's?

Fading sunlight dappled the bright tents circling the field. Before the blood-red tent, a lithe figure scanned the crowd. A tunic and trousers similar to my own draped over her frame. A mere second after I noticed her, her eyes locked on mine. Then she flashed a bright smile and strode straight toward me.

I sucked in a breath to calm the giddy anticipation in my chest. It's not real, I reminded myself. She's not actually excited to see me.

Izra stopped five feet from me and tilted her head, still smiling. "I was almost afraid you wouldn't make it tonight. I'm not sure I could settle for anyone else again."

I clamped down on another pathetic flutter at her words. Any chance of an authentic relationship between us had long since vanished. My eyes dipped to the dagger strapped to her hip, and I remembered the cold metal pricking my neck at our last meeting. Izra was only playing a role now — just like everyone in the palace.

My lips strained in an effort to smile. "I would never miss an opportunity to see you."

She tipped her head toward the tent. "Shall we go somewhere more private?"

"Yes, please."

Izra stepped forward, snatched my hand, and laced her fingers through mine. My heart clenched at the warmth of her hand and the way her fingers slotted perfectly through my own. Tossing me another winsome smile, Izra tugged me toward the red tent. At the entrance, she flipped back the flap and ducked to enter, pulling me through behind her.

The second the flap fluttered closed, she wrenched her hand free from mine.

I jerked to a stop, feeling the absence of her hand as acutely as a slap across the face. Izra sauntered off toward the pile of furs. She sank down with her knees bent close to her chest, arms draped over her legs, and eyes pinned to the grass in front of her.

I pinched my thigh, staring at the same grassy spot Izra's gaze penetrated and vaguely listening to the crescendoing cacophony outside the tent. After a moment of silence, I cleared my throat.

"I hear you succeeded in freeing the prisoners."

"I did."

"And you didn't kill any guards."

"You asked me not to."

"You didn't have to listen to me."

"You didn't have to give me a key."

We fell silent once more. Izra propped her hands beside her hips, stretched out one leg, and let the other knee drop to the side. Her hair draped behind her in a glossy black curtain, and the lantern light silhouetted her profile with sharp strokes, a sponged painting of olive skin outlined in black. If I swept a hand through her hair, I imagined the silky strands would ripple like a pebble dropped into the lagoon at night.

"The King does not suspect you?"

I jerked my gaze to her face and shook my head. "No. He... he says I am the only guard he trusts completely."

Izra huffed a breath through her nose almost like a laugh, though her face remained expressionless. "I wish I could believe you right now. It would be satisfying to know the King fell for your act as easily as I did."