The Claimed: A Clash of Copper and Gold

Chapter 1: Heinous Traditions

The first time I met a Claimed, I was twelve years old.

His gold-painted skin blended so well with the gold steps behind him that I took a moment to notice him. But when I did, I could not look away. 

He knelt at the bottom of the stairs to the tribal chief's palace, eyes fixed on the ground a few feet ahead of him. His head was a shiny golden globe without eyebrows or eyelashes, and a thin gold collar circled his neck. Pressed up between his bent legs, even his flaccid penis glittered with gold.

The back of my neck prickled as I remembered my father's words. The Rakim tribe still practices some heinous traditions. It is best not to get too close or ask too many questions. I ripped my gaze away from the man to focus on the bright gold and marble turrets and pillars of the palace, battling my curiosity.

The curiosity won. 

Stepping forward, I said, "Why are you naked? And what happened to your hair?"

He stared at the ground in silence.

I crouched down in front of him and waved a hand in front of his face. "Hello?"

"He's not allowed to speak to you." The bored voice carried the accent of the Rakim region with its smooth delivery and the drawn out s.

I jumped and whipped toward the speaker, a boy a couple of years older than myself and maybe six inches taller. He was thin—broomstick thin—but the confidence in his posture made the long lines and sharp angles elegant and poised rather than gawky. His billowy white tunic hung unlaced at the top, exposing flawless ebony skin. With hair in shiny black ringlets, high cheekbones, an angular jaw, and an upward tilt of his broad nose, he radiated arrogance.

I combed my fingers through my unkempt dirty-blonde hair and attempted to mimic his smooth tenor, but my voice cracked. "Why not?"

"Because Gold is a Claimed."

"A Claimed?" 

"Gold belongs to my brother, Makash."

"Like a slave?"

"No. Anyone can own a slave. Only the Rakim family and our top advisors can Claim."

"How is Claiming different from enslaving?"

He propped an elbow against his hip and examined his fingernails. "Slaves keep their spirits and identities, but when a person is Claimed, their former self is completely erased. And when the Master tires of them or dies, the Claimed is killed."

His calm words tightened my throat and weakened my stomach. "Why? Why would anyone do that to another person?"

His eyes dropped to the man kneeling behind me, but his gaze remained disinterested. "Revenge. Power. Entertainment. And of course, unlimited sex." He glanced in my direction as he said the last word, an eyebrow raised as if daring me to react.

Despite my best efforts, my cheeks heated. "So your brother prefers men?"

He tilted his head back, long black lashes half-closed over his dark eyes. "I wouldn't say that. He has Claimed more women than men. I'm not even sure he is actually attracted to the men sexually—I think he just enjoys breaking them."

A cold stone swelled in my gut, but morbid curiosity pushed me to find out more. "How many Claimed does your family have?"

"My brother just claimed his sixth. My father has five Claimed, and my mother has almost twenty. Voracious appetites seem to run in the family."

I furrowed my brow. "Your parents have each other. Why would they need a Claimed?"

For a moment, he only stared at me, face unreadable. Then he said coolly, "You have the eyes of a whore."