Page 43 of Taken to Nobu
I huff. “You said most. Most is not all. So what did the others say that didn’t understand?”
“My Xhea, it is not important what a few think…”
“Of course it is. What did they say?”
She waits, then confesses. “They think you shame him.”
I inhale as if struck. That’s not what I expected. I expected all manner of foul thing to come out of their mouths aboutme —a foreign female who’s taken their leader for herself, who tried to run and caused the death of a warrior, who trains with the xub’Okkari and thinks she’s one herself. I glance away from the reflective surface and focus on that stupid spot in the kitchen that Kuana cleaned to death. At this point, I don’t really feel like looking at myself.
“And what did you say?”
“I said that they were wrong and that any business that affects your relationship with the Okkari is between the two of you alone.”
“Thank you, but you know they’re not wrong.” I groan. “And thatsucks.”
“Sucks? How can something suck if it is only what was said? A sentence has no mouth.”
I chuckle inadvertently, rolling my eyes and nudging her with my elbow, like we’re old friends. “That’s obviously not what I meant. It’s just a human expression. I’m just embarrassed — not even on my own behalf, but for the Okkari and he hasn’t even done anything wrong.”
She doesn’t answer right away which just makes me feel worse. “It is not known for us, to have Xiveri mates separated, or to have our Xhea try to run away… But neither is a warrior Xhea who fights her Okkari or who trains with the xub’Okkari. You are new for us. There will always be those who doubt.”
“But they shouldn’t doubthim. He didn’t do anything wrong. I just…need time to figure this all out. This is new for me too.”
“The Okkari knows this. I’m sure.”
That doesn’t make me feel better. “He doesn’t.” I finger one of the braids she made, hanging down near my breasts, which are exposed. It’s a perfect braid, evenly weighted, not a frayed strand. Just as perfect as my mom would have done. Maybe even better, though she’d tut at that.Scowling down at me with her hands on her hips, towel perpetually hanging from the apron at her waist — not that she cooks. It’s where she carries her army of hair supplies. “Kiki, that is a sloppy braid. If only you could braid as well as you could hit.”
“Then you must make him. You are our warrior Xhea.”
I don’t feel like it.I shake my head.
Kuana pauses again, this time with a slight jerk, like she’s restraining herself from saying something more.
“What is it, Kuana?”
“May I offer a suggestion?”
“Please,” I grumble, only half sarcastically.
Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice. “It is important for the Xhea to honor her tribe. You honor the tribe, you honor the Okkari.”
“How do I honor the tribe?”
She gives me a small smile. “You are our warrior Xhea. I leave this up to you, for anything I could suggest would be inferior, I’m sure.”
She finishes the last braid and heats water on my instruction. We dip the ends of my hair into the hot water, sealing them, and she gushes over me. “Beautiful.”
“What’s beautiful is your work. My mom was always chastising me because I could never braid as well as she could. I think you might even make her jealous with what you’ve done.” I shake out my hair, letting the weight of the braids and their tight roots remind me of her and home and a happy childhood. “Thank you, Kuana. For everything.”
Deep blue again, against her bright green skin, the color looks alarming, but I’m getting used to it. In fact, it’s only when her colors are truly startling that I even notice the color of her skin anymore. I wonder if she notices mine anymore either.
She opens her mouth to answer, but as does, there’s a knock on our door. Aknock. And that can only mean one thing.Only one person here knocks while the rest hail on my or Kuana’s personal communicator and then just enter.
Kuana quickly throws a pelt over my shoulders, one that drops all the way to my calves. She fixes it with a stone clasp and I amble awkwardly beneath it, heading to the door.
“Come in,” I shout, but when nothing happens, I press my palm to the vein reader and the door whooshes open.
Air blasts into the space so cold I have to close my eyes against it. Even in the pelt I’ve donned, I can feel the icy sting against my feet and shins, whooshing up to touch my core. My lips pulse and heat and, like I do every time, I try to ignore it and can’t. Seeing him, knowing that we’ve been so close these past solars when we’ve been sparring — but haven’t touched — makes me restless. More restless than ever. Each solar is worse than the last.
