Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Worse yet—what if Ranan decides he wants his husbandly rights? I won’t get pregnant, but something tells me that he won’t like my bleeding, either. I’ll still happily have sex with him, but I never feel less unappealing than when I’m crampy and bleeding and bloated.
I want to cry. I’m not much of a weeper, but today, I feel like wailing in frustration. Why does my body have the worst timing ever? Why can’t I be like one of the other village girls who skip their monthly cycle when the slightest stressful things happen? No, I have to bleed like a stuck pig.
Clutching my gut, I try to come up with a story. Back in Parness, a woman with her menses was considered unclean, a curse by the god Gental every month as punishment that we did not bear children. I’d have to hide from all men until Gental’s curse was lifted. Some women look forward to their menses because they can hide out from their husbands and children, but for me, it just meant the usual work and cramps.
Ranan’s going to think I’m unclean and avoid me if I tell him the truth. I need a good lie as to why I can’t swim today. Why I need to just stay here in the tent, stinking of old blood. An old wound, perhaps? That seems the most likely answer. Yes. I’ve opened an old wound I need to nurse it. I can swim later. I adjust my torn dress around my waist, hiding my loins. The wound is on my inner thigh, I decide, prepping my story. Perhaps I was gored by a bull once and now the salt water has made it flare up again. Completely believable—
The tent flap jerks back, and I yelp in surprise. I’ve been so tense that the sight of him sets my heart to pounding. “Oh, it’s you.”
Ranan scowls at my words.
“Not that I was expecting anyone else,” I blurt out, sitting up. My dress gets shorter by the day, and to make sure that I have everything covered that needs covering, I’m wearing it as a skirt and leaving my breasts bare. The women in Parness would do so when the weather got hot and no one looked twice, but it’s just me and Ranan here, and I haven’t gone bare-breasted save for our swimming lessons.
He stared at my breasts then, and he’s staring at them now, too. I mean, they are rather nice breasts, but now is not the time that I want my new husband aroused by the sight of me. “I can’t swim today,” I blurt out. “Apologies. I’m just going to lie here in the tent.”
Ranan narrows his eyes at me. “Why?”
He seems suspicious, as if I’m deliberately working against his wishes. Gods, I wish I could reassure him. What if his people toss unclean women overboard and make them swim until the monthly curse is lifted? What if he abandons me on shore again? “Nothing much,” I say in my brightest voice. “The salt water has just opened up an old wound of mine and I need to rest it until the bleeding stops.”
“You’re bleeding?”
“Not much,” I blurt out, wondering if I should have gone with a different tactic. “Just enough that I can’t swim today, as you said. I’m sure it’ll be gone by morning. It’s truly fine.”
He gives me such a look that I quail inside. “Where?”
I swallow hard. “Where what?”
“Where are you bleeding?”
Oh, by the gods. Surely he doesn’t want specifics. “Nowhere important. Like I said, it’s an old wound—”
“Show me.” Ranan’s expression is unyielding.
“Truly, it’s nothing at all, I swear.” I adjust my skirt, hoping that no blood is coming through. “But if you have some rags I can use to clean up the blood, I’d be ever so grateful…”
My excuses die in my throat as he continues to glare at me.
“Show me,” he says again, not moving a muscle.
“I really don’t think that’s necessary.” I primly smooth a hand down the hem of my skirt, making sure it covers me to my knees and hides everything.
That small movement gets his attention, however. He points at my lower body. “Is it on your leg?”
“If you must know, it’s the inside of my thigh,” I lie. “An old goring from a bull. I—eep!” I yelp when he grabs my legs, sliding me onto my back, and spreads my thighs far apart. “Don’t! Please!”
He ignores my protests and gazes between my legs, and I want to die of shame. Just fall right off the turtle and drift down into the deep waters of the sea and forget all of this. I cover my hands with my face, embarrassed.
“You’re bleeding.”
“I know! I said that!”
He’s quiet, and I keep my hands over my face, trying to draw my legs together. His hands hold my knees apart, though, and then he strokes the outside of my thigh. “I see no old wounds. Is this your menses, then?”