The mercenary bitches giggle.
“Hold still,” one commands. “The hair is itchy in the heat. It’s best to take it off.”
“Do the men do this?” Grudgingly, I let them do their thing. I’ve been physically attended to for most of my life. In the outside world, people pay big money to have their pubic hair ripped out, and these ladies are doing it for free. I ought to show more gratitude, but I’m too freaking tired for this.
“The smart ones do,” says one of my companions.
“Nothing worse than getting your pubic hair caught in leather shorts while hunting.” She mimics crouching, then standing up and wincing. I can’t help but laugh.
By the end of the bathing session, I’m literally falling asleep in the water.
The air is warm when they pull me out.
“Where are my clothes?” The pile of rags is nowhere to be seen.
“Queen Brenica sent this for you to wear. It should fit with a few adjustments to the lacings.”
Oh. My. Gods. The dress she sent looks like sexy club wear you’d find in Europe or Asia. If the red dragon-leather skirt covers my proportionally-generous ass, I’ll be surprised. White laces threaded crosswise through the holes at either hip are a nod to my tribe’s colors, red and silver. I decide to interpret this as a sign of respect and a not-so-subtle hint that Brenica is better-informed about my people than I am about hers.
I recognize a power play when I see one.
Smiling, I let the women dry me off and wiggle the strappy getup onto my body. It’s been months since I dressed to feel pretty. They fuss with my hair, too, one braiding it while the other adjusts the fit of the bodice over my breasts.
Aware of the passage of time, I try to rush them along. They are having none of it, so I grit my teeth and wait for them to finish. Just when I think I’m done, they smile and tell me it’s time for me to be painted.
“What?”
“Tovian has requested the privilege.” One grins. The other pouts. The first woman swats the other and laughs. “He was never going to paint you, stop being jealous.”
“What’s the significance of painting someone?”
“It means he’s laid claim to you. No other man will approach you while you wear his paint.” She holds up her hands. “See? Ours are small. If we paint you, it means you’re available. If we put certain marks on you, you’re seeking a lover.”
“I see,” although I don’t, to be honest. Clearly, there’s a kind of code indicating one’s sexual availability, but it seems pretty complex. Even my overtaxed brain can figure out that the only man I want touching me is Tovian, so I meekly let them lead me out to where he’s waiting for me at the entrance of the bathing area.
The way he lights up upon seeing me sends flutters swooping through my exposed midsection. He wants me, the weirdo. He doesn’t even try to hide it.
I don’t quite know what to do with that fact.
“You look…” he trails off.
“Ready to meet your mother again?” I prompt. The bath has been nice and the food necessary, but I’m worried about Ephram and Luza. I’m torn between wanting to explore this fascinating place and needing to help our people.
“Not quite.” He dips his hands into a bowl of gross-looking purple paint.
“I don’t think I want that stuff on me.” I make a face. Disturbingly, Tovian squelches it in his palm.
“This is how people know you’re not an outsider infiltrating the tribe. It’s a security measure.”
“I heard the paint has a secondary meaning.” I can’t keep the smile out of my voice. Tovian’s generous mouth quirks up. I love the way there’s always a hint of humor in his expression, whether it’s a twinkle in his deep brown eyes or a smile playing on his lips.
“Ah. The women have been gossiping.”
The first stroke of paint, on my collar bones, makes me flinch.
“Does this really mean you’re marking me as your own?”
I don’t mean for it to come out in a breathy tease, but it does.
