The Claimed: Rashika's Resistance

Chapter 31: Blood

Hot and cold prickled over my skin like a fever, and my wounded gut writhed. I swallowed and gritted my teeth.

"That's a lie."

He splayed open palms and shook his head. "No, sweet child. It's true. Your mother was a slave in Kalasiki, and I saved her. I paid for her freedom and brought her back to Rakim."

    "Saved her," I repeated with a hoarse laugh. "You ordered the Trogolese mercenaries to kill her."

    His eyes widened and mouth worked silently, but he recovered quickly. "That only came to pass because of extenuating circumstances. You must realize that Rakim tradition does not allow rulers to sire children outside of their marriage. I told her to take care of the problem, but she refused."

    Pain stabbed my gut and flashed out over my body, and my sword sagged. I needed to kill the King now before I lost too much blood, but the story he weaved sank hooks into my chest, refusing to release me. I pressed my left hand over the still-bleeding stab wound and glared at him.

"Take care of the problem by killing me?"

"She refused, though," he said, smoothly, as though talking about some ridiculous old spat rather than the murder of his own daughter. "She said the child was too obedient and trusting to ever cause any problems."

A bitter swell tightened my throat. "She always told me the Goddess blesses those who obey without question."

He nodded. "She promised me you believed that."

I blinked and huffed a laugh through my nose. "That's a slave mantra."

"A very good one." He tapped his chin, eyes alight like one discussing a favorite hobby. "Incredibly effective."

Of course, manipulation was his favorite hobby. I wanted to believe telling me he was my father was just another part of that — just another game. Yet the real possibility he was telling the truth wrapped vines around my chest, constricting my breath.

Whether or not I was related to him, he deserved to die. But if what he said was true, did I deserve to live? A month of serving the Resistance hardly constituted proof of any real difference between us.

When you dig up a weed, you don't leave the root to grow.

My gut fired white-hot pain, wrenching a gasp from my lips. I doubled over, sword sagging. King Makapu rose from his seat and took one step toward me, eyes pinned to my wound and brows furrowed.

"Epsa, you're —"

"Stop." I straightened and lifted the sword toward the King's chest. "On your knees. Don't pretend you care about me."

He raised both hands, eyebrows raised in polite surprise. "I'm not pretending."

"On your knees," I repeated.

The King rolled both his head and eyes in a disbelieving gesture, but he dropped to a crouch and slowly lowered first one knee and then the other to the ground. "Fine. Let's resolve this. Take a deep breath, child, and tell me what you want from me."

"I want the truth." I hardly recognized my own voice, a harsh snarl. "If I really am your daughter, how could you order my death?"

"For four years, I trusted your mother's promise of discretion. Then one night, I heard you praying to the Goddess in your bedroom. You spoke so eloquently, like a miniature adult. And I knew you were no mindless pet. I knew you would cause problems one day.

"But then I visited your home after the attack to make sure the problem had been eliminated, and you were... so sweet. So obedient. I couldn't help myself from saving you."