The Last Namsara (Iskari #1)(12)

But Dax collected scandals like trophies. He was always picking fights. Or gambling away money from the treasury. Or flirting with the daughters of all their father’s favorite officials.

The heir was an embarrassment, and the king’s patience was wearing thin. So he sent Dax to deal with the scrublanders, and told Jarek to accompany him. The king knew his commandant—who was furious at the loss of his second-in-command—would keep his son in line.

Roa pressed a tight fist over her heart in scrublander greeting, but her gaze remained fixed on Asha’s scar.

“The Iskari herself,” she said, in a voice like honey and thunder. Her fist uncurled and fell back to her side. “Dax says you can take down a dragon with your bare hands.”

Asha would have laughed—but the arrival of a young man interrupted her. As his shadow fell across them, Asha’s stomach clenched.

Jarek.

It was he who’d caught and put to death all three scrublander would-be assassins. He who’d ended the last slave rebellion. He who Asha would bind herself to by the time the red moon waned.

Unless she killed Kozu first.

In the presence of the commandant, Dax was reduced to a mere boy. Jarek towered over him. He stood square and strong, like the foundation of a mighty fortress. His silk shirt stretched across his broad chest, revealing just how solid he was.

Asha looked to Roa and found her eyes narrowed on the commandant.

It wasn’t the usual reaction. Usually, Jarek’s flawless physique made him impressive and alluring to women. But Roa seemed . . . on edge.

While Jarek eyed the heir to the throne and his new scrublander friend, his arm snaked around Asha’s waist, tucking her against him like a dagger or a saber, squeezing her hip until it hurt.

Jarek was one of the few who dared to touch her.

“Making friends, Asha?” He smelled sour, like alcohol.

She knew better than to squirm away or give any hint he was hurting her.

“Dax was just introducing me to—”

“We’ve met.” Jarek’s attention turned to the cut of Asha’s kaftan, his gaze consuming her. Like she was a goblet of wine. “You found your gift, I see.”

Asha stared into the space between Dax and Roa, her gaze settling on a collared slave serving tea beneath the gallery. She held the brass teapot high in the air, letting the golden liquid arch elegantly as the cups filled with froth.

Jarek leaned in close. “Tell me. Do you like it?”

He knew the answer to his own question.

Compared to all the other kaftans in the courtyard, which were elegant and modest, Asha’s was a spectacle. Oh, it was finely made. It probably cost a soldat’s monthly wage—which was nothing for Jarek, whose father left him a bulging inheritance.

This kaftan was a luscious shade of indigo. Its thin layers shifted around her like sand, contained only by a wide sash tied tight and high around her waist. If Asha had to guess, she’d say he’d bought it in Darmoor, her father’s largest trading port. But the kaftan was made for beautiful, desirable girls. Not scarred, horrifying ones.

It was the neckline, which plunged, and the translucent material that insulted her most. It allowed Jarek to see too much of her. But the last time she’d refused a gift, Safire got hurt. So Asha wore it.

“You look like a goddess.”

Asha went rigid. His gaze made her want to disappear. She longed to move through this crowd unseen, gather her armor and her axe, and hunt Kozu down this very moment.

Instead, she said, “You should have seen me earlier: covered from head to toe in dragon gore.”

Jarek was not put off. He stepped in closer, careful not to turn his back to her brother and the scrublander. The commandant never turned his back on a threat.

“Dance with me.”

Asha stared once more at the slave pouring tea. “You know I don’t dance.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” Jarek’s grip tightened, allowing him to easily maneuver her away from her brother and his scrublander friend.

“Hey. Sandeater.” Dax grabbed the sleeve of Jarek’s shirt. “She doesn’t want to dance with you.”

Jarek’s eyes flashed. He shoved Dax. Easily.

The heir stumbled into Roa, spilling his cup of wine over them both. Roa’s lips parted in shock, her hands fluttering to the maroon stain seeping through her creamy linen dress.

“Excuse us.” Jarek smirked, forcing Asha into the crowd, toward the music. As he did, Asha glanced back over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of Roa’s narrowed eyes.

“I haven’t seen you in a month,” Jarek said in her ear. “I buy you a dress three times the price it’s worth. Now it’s time for you to do as I ask.”

Asha was about to repeat her refusal—more clearly this time—when that voice returned, calling her name. She didn’t look. She knew she’d find no one there. And besides, where would she look? The voice called to her from a hundred directions at once.

Asha. Asha. Asha.

It reminded her of a story. . . .

She forced the thought out of her head as Jarek dragged her onward, closer to the music. He pulled her into him, locking his arms around her waist so their bodies aligned. So she could feel his desire—hard and prodding.

Feeling sick, Asha turned her face away. She shouldn’t have. It was dangerous to show weakness in front of the commandant. But after ten days of hunting in the Rift, Asha didn’t have any energy left for games.