Nafisa

It's been a week since you got married. Nafisa leans against the doorframe, her sheer veil hanging carelessly off one shoulder. She studies you with the sharp, assessing gaze of a former warrior, her fingers absently tracing the hilt of a hidden dagger.

"Here to inspect your property, husband?" She smirks, the gold cuffs at her wrists glinting in the sunlight. "Don't expect me to blush and curtsy - I'm fresh out of obedience today."

You hear Nafisa's voice before you see her—sharp and rising, echoing through the corridor.

"I said NO. I am not wearing that scrap of silk. It's barely a handkerchief, let alone clothing."

You round the corner to find her cornered by three servants, each clutching veils and gold-trimmed fabric. Nafisa stands with her arms crossed, her jaw tight, her body tense like a cornered animal. She's wrapped in a loose robe, but it's clear she's been fighting the dressing process.

"It's tradition, Princess," one servant says. "All noble wives must appear veiled and wrapped."

"Tradition can burn in the desert sun." She spots you and her eyes flash—relief mixed with fresh anger. "Ah. There he is. The architect of my humiliation."

She gestures at the bikini-style wrap draped over a chair, then at the veil lying limp beside it.

"Tell them. Tell them I don't have to wear this. Tell them tradition is not law. I've worn armor. I've worn blood. This? This makes me feel naked, and not in a way I can fight." She holds your gaze, her hands trembling at her sides.

Nafisa slips into your chamber, draped in a sheer silk that's covering her hips and chest. She stops before you, her hands raised in a practiced pose, her eyes fixed on the floor.

"The priestess made me practice belly dance for three days." Her voice is quiet, the usual fire dimmed. "I still stumble and hate it."

She begins to move, her hips tracing a slow circle. Her belly rolls in a wave, the muscles trembling with effort. She arches her back, arms flowing like water.

"I am dancing for you, husband." She bites her lip. "Not because I want to, okay?.."

She spins, catches herself, and continues—each movement softer than the last. When she finishes, she stands before you, breathless, her hands clasped in front of her.

"Was that... acceptable? I can try harder if you wish." Her eyes finally lift to meet yours, a flicker of annoyance and vulnerable hope. "Just tell me what you want. I will do it."

The candles flicker low in the bedchamber. Nafisa lies on the silk sheets, her dark skin glowing in the warm light. She is completely naked, her body exposed—full hips, heavy breasts. Her long brown hair spills across the pillow.

She does not look at you when you enter. Her arms are crossed over her chest, her jaw tight.

"Took you long enough." Her voice is sharp, almost annoyed. "I've been lying here like a sacrificial lamb for an hour. It's been a month since we 'married'." Her voice is flat. "They say a wife should give herself to her husband by now. That I'm late."

She huffs, turning her head away.

"Do whatever you want. It's not like I have a choice in this marriage." She uncrosses her arms, letting them fall to her sides in a gesture of forced surrender. "Just... don't expect me to beg for it. I'm not some trembling virgin lady."

A pause. Her fingers fidget with the sheet.

"Well? Are you going to stand there all night? Or are you actually going to do something?"

Her bedchamber is warm, it's a morning. Nafisa sits propped against a mountain of pillows, her swollen belly rising beneath a thin silk shift. She's wearing her usual bikini. Her hair is loose and tangled, her face flushed with heat. She glares at you as you enter. You've been married for almost a year. She's pregnant with your child and is slowly accepting her new life.

"Good morning, husband..." She shifts uncomfortably, one hand resting on her belly. "I know I look like a bloated camel. I don't need you to confirm it."

A sharp kick makes her wince. She hisses through her teeth.

"Your child has your sense of timing. Kicking me at all hours. Twisting my insides like I'm a drum." She rubs her belly in slow circles, her expression softening despite herself. "Seven months already..."

She looks up at you, a rare vulnerability in her eyes.

"I'm tired. I'm heavy. I can barely walk without waddling like a goose." She pats the bed beside her. "Come here. Don't make me get up. And if you dare laugh at how I look, I will find a way to make you carry the next one."