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.

"I have never seen anyone so beautiful."

The words slipped from her mouth like sand sifting through fingers. Then she froze, chest lifted with a trapped breath and fingers flexed against my face. With a sharp exhale, her hand snapped back to her side, and her lips and eyebrows both twitched like she had just heard some ironic, heart-wrenching joke.

As I stared at her, an uncomfortable fuzziness crackled in my chest, a warmth less welcome than the cold. I could feel the truth in the brush of her fingers, the gravity in her eyes, the rawness of her voice. Impossible, nonsensical truth.

"You really mean that," I whispered, not a question but a statement of wonder—of hope mingled with pain.

She spun around and sauntered back toward the pile of furs, dropping down to sit cross-legged in a single graceful motion. In a more measured voice, she said, "You may sit with me, if you wish."

I approached the furs with hesitant, stilted steps, halting a couple feet from her. "Does that mean you'd still like to have me?"

"No. Well, yes. There are many, many things I'd like to do with you, Epsa. But you seem a bit... inexperienced. And I'm not sure I would be a good teacher."

I lowered myself down to my knees and sank back onto my heels in front of her. "I'm not inexperienced."

"Is that so?" She leaned back, resting her elbows in the heap of fur behind her. The fabric of her gown tightened across her chest, pulling the woven slit open just far enough to hint at the gentle swell of her breast. "Then why don't you show me?"

I drank in the slow rise and fall of her chest, the effortless perfection of every angle, the decadent leisure in her posture. I swallowed to wet my dry throat.

"Show you what?"

A smile crept onto her face as she observed my rapture. She tipped her chin up in a challenge.

"Whatever you do best."

My stomach flipped as though I had tumbled over a ledge, but I took a deep breath and leaned forward. Dropping my left hand into the fur inches from her hip, I drew my right hand up toward her chest. Then I hesitated, fingers hovering a mere inch from her collarbone. My throat tightened with a strange mix of desire and self-disgust.

Izra drew in a breath. "If you don't want to touch me—"

"I do want to."

"Then do it."

I skirted two fingers along her collarbone. Then my hand drifted up to caress her neck, and my thumb brushed the sharp line of her jaw. The contrast of warm, silken skin over angular bones and lean muscle filled me with a heady rush.

For once, everything was falling into perfect alignment. The King asked me to bed her, Izra asked me to bed her, and the heat pooling in my core certainly asked me to bed her. Still, unease crawled in my gut like it had when Rona told me her story.

My every touch was a theft.

Forcing aside this ridiculous notion, I slipped my hand down over her shoulder, my rough fingertips grazing exposed skin and then smoothing over fabric. I trailed my hand down her gown, tracing the outline of her breast while avoiding direct contact.

She arched her back, chest rising to meet my touch. I lifted my gaze to her lips and then her eyes. Dilated pupils stared back at me with unwavering attention.

My heart beat faster.

My fingers ghosted over her waist and hip to settle on her thigh. Beneath the thin fabric of her gown, lean muscle flexed. Perhaps she could feel the clamminess of my hand. I eyed the slit at the side of her dress and froze, biting my lip.

Her expulsive exhale drew my gaze to her face. A withheld smile threatened to overtake her lips, and a laugh danced in her eyes.

A bout of indignation overpowered my wariness. My years in the palace had only allowed for two brief sexual affairs, but neither partner had complained.

"Am I doing something wrong?"

"Not at all."

"Then why are you laughing?"

"I'm not laugh—" Her eyes swept upward as her lips tugged wider, revealing slightly crooked white teeth. "I'm sorry. I've just never had a partner so polite."

Goddess damn it, that unguarded smile melted both my indignation and wariness. That smile held something scarier and far more dangerous than her blade to my throat.

That smile was adorable.

I pinched the back of one hand and sucked in a breath. "Then you show me."

"Show you what?"

"How to be less polite."

A spark flickered across Izra's dark eyes—lust, perhaps, but also a kind of bemused fascination. As if she saw something unexpected. Something special.

And for a brief, shameful moment, I wished I was a potato farmer.

Softly, slowly, Izra said, "You know, Epsa, you really—"

The tent flap burst open.

Denavin's impressive frame swallowed the entrance, her broad chest clad in a simple tunic and trousers hugging her muscular thighs. Dirt smeared her forehead and caked the knees of her trousers. With every breath, her nostrils flared, her chest heaved, and her fists bobbed near the daggers strapped to both of her hips. Her voice erupted in a growl.

"Izra, what are you doing?"

I lurched to my feet and scrambled back a couple steps, heat rising to my cheeks. "Sorry, I can leave if—"

"No, you can stay." Izra lifted her gaze to meet Denavin's stare, elbows still propped in the furs and posture defiantly casual. "What does it look like I am doing?"

Denavin snorted. "This is the third time you've brought this one to your tent." Her eyes scoured my body, and her lips twisted in a sneer. "I fail to see why this farmer caught your interest."

"Hmm." Izra rolled up to sitting, propping her palms where her elbows had been. "Do you have something against farmers?"

"I'm not saying farmers are stupid, but they are certainly small-minded."

"Small-minded," Izra repeated with a nod, face and voice both unreadable. "Do you actually know any farmers, Denavin?"

Denavin's gaze dropped to the ground in front of Izra, and she licked her lips. "Well, I... no. But I have known you since you were just a stuttering child, Izra, and you have always dreamed big. You need someone who thinks about more important things than potatoes."

"And what is more important than feeding the hungry?"

Though her voice remained nonchalant, some steel cord ran through her words. Was she defending me? I studied Izra, but her eyes remained on Denavin. Cruel, she was, to be so unreadable. And crueler still that she was so hard to hate.

Denavin scowled, and her words cut like jagged rock. "You are being impulsive and careless, Izra—and you are forgetting your priorities."

Izra's shoulders stiffened, and her jaw ticked. "I never forget my priorities."

"Oh, really?" Denavin shook her head and huffed another snort. "We just killed two wild boars, and you are missing the feast to bed a farmer."

Izra's brows furrowed, and her voice dropped quieter. "You killed two boars? Why didn't you lead with that?"

Denavin's gaze pierced me. I was startled to notice that despite her dark curls and warm, honey skin, she possessed the same gray eyes as Venn and Karoo—too faded to be anything but Northern heritage. Denavin raised her eyebrows at me and jerked her head toward the tent's exit behind her.

"Right," I said. "I'll be on my way."

"Epsa."

I glanced at Izra, who studied me with a cocked head, fingers playing in the furs and one knee bouncing slightly as though her whole body deliberated some decision.

Then she said, "Will you be at the next Coupling?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"And would you like to spend the evening with me?"

I nodded again, a bit jerkier than the first time as adrenaline surged up inside of me. "I would like that very much."

"Then wear something comfortable," said Izra. "Something you don't mind getting dirty."

* * *

Makandi staggered into the upstairs family room and threw himself into the armchair beside me with enough force that the spring creaked and the chair rocked back onto its heels. He twisted my way to shoot me a grin and a blast of prak-saturated breath.

"Waiting for the messenger to leave so you can spill all of Izra's secrets?"

I fixed my eyes on the doorway. "I am waiting to give a report to the King, yes, but Izra has not told me anything of value yet."

"Ah, so her mouth has been too busy elsewhere? That would be difficult to interrupt."

Irritation sparked in my chest. "If you are doubting my loyalty—"

"Never. You are as loyal as a puppet on strings, Epsa. And if a puppet fails, only the puppet master is to blame."

The sparks flamed up, and I closed my eyes briefly to dampen the fire before I replied. "Why don't you go talk to Paranila?"

He straightened his legs with a dramatic kick and flopped his head back to gaze up at the ceiling. "Paranila doesn't listen to me."

"Neither do I."

Head still tipped back, he shrugged. "Yes, but at least you're honest about it."

I refocused on the door.

Makandi hissed a breath through his teeth. "I miss you, Epsa. We used to be so close. Why did you turn away from me?"

The rawness in his voice startled me into glancing his direction. His smile remained insolent, but I thought some pain lurked behind the bright shine of alcohol in his eyes.

My chest twisted with a spurt of long-forgotten memories of Makandi as a child. Sharing extra sweets he stole from the kitchen. Organizing tournaments between our toys. Supporting my dream to join the Royal Guard back when everyone else still treated it as a joke.

I frowned. "I didn't turn away from you, Makandi. You turned away from me. And more importantly, you turned away from the King."

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "It's not like I have any chance of winning his approval."

"Not if you act like this, you don't."

"Then how do you suggest I act, oh perfect Epsa?"

"You could start by showing some respect."

Footsteps plodded the carpet in the hall, and then King Makapu strode into the room. His eyes flicked over Makandi, and his chest deflated an inch with a quiet sigh. Then his gaze swept toward me.

"Epsa, the messenger has finished, so you may join me in my study."

"Yes, Your Maj—"

"What about me, Your Majesty?" Makandi shot to his feet at my side and swung his arms to catch his balance. "How can I serve you?"

The King Makapu pinched the bridge of his nose and released a vocalized huff. "Makandi, could you just—"

Makandi swaggered two steps toward his father. "Could I just what, Your Royal Majesty?"

"Could you just... not."

Makandi threw a glance my way, pushing out his lower lip and raising his palms before himself in a shrug. Then he sauntered toward the door, loose hips and shoulders a mockery of someone suave—of someone regal. In the doorway, he spun back and folded into a low bow.

"All glory to the King!" he intoned as he dipped out of sight.

The King and I both stood still as the footsteps faded. Then the King cleared his throat and nodded at me. I followed him out of the family room just down the hall to his study.

As the King sidled into the dark oak chair behind his desk, I began my report. He tapped a quill on the desk and nodded as I spoke, handsome dark features contemplating my words.

When I finished, he said, "So you have made no progress."

"I haven't learned much yet, Your Majesty, but I do think I am beginning to gain her trust."

"I'm afraid that is not good enough."

I swallowed back the bitter disappointment that swelled in my throat. "I know it's not good enough yet, but soon—"

"How soon?"

My tongue and lips attempted to work out a reply, but he shook his head and tsked before I could answer.

"Epsa, perhaps I should share with you the news the messenger has just brought. The resistance movement is growing bold. This very night, they have murdered two of our Royal Guards going about their duties."

"Two... two Royal Guards?" My voice left in a stilted gasp.

"Not Pim or Pamil."

I gave a slow nod, grateful for this reassurance, but it was something else that now stuck in my throat like fishbones.

We just killed two wild boars.

My traitorous mind conjured a disconcerting image—Izra's smile. Not her sexy one, but her beautifully helpless one, momentarily overcome by humor and joy. Did Izra really condone this senseless violence against guards?

"Epsa, it is time we capture Izra and extract information using alternative methods."

My nails bit my palms as I shook my head. "Izra would never knowingly betray her cause."

The King smiled, though a weariness touched his eyes. "Oh, Epsa. Anyone can be made to do anything, given the correct motivation."

My gaze dropped to the quill in his hands as a chill fluttered down my spine. I wasn't sure exactly what the King would do, but I was fairly certain that Izra would not be smiling anymore. While I could not let more guards die, perhaps there was a way to end this without violence.

Fisting my hands at my sides, I raised my gaze to meet the King's once more.

"Give me one more chance, Your Majesty."