TWENTY-NINE
It took every drop of Anahita's self control not to sink a blade into Basit's arm as he marched her away from the feasting tent. Not that she'd wanted to stay, but his meaty fingers biting into her arm would leave bruises.
Her stomach protested that she hadn't eaten, but Anahita ignored it. No one had offered her food or wine at the feast – even her previous husbands had made an effort to feed her. Then again, with Basit's greedy eyes on her, she hadn't felt like eating.
While he stuffed himself and his men drank countless toasts to his health and virility and other such manly virtues, she'd watched the crowd. Several men had slipped out, unseen by anyone but her, and she'd witnessed whispered conversations between the serving women and some of the men seated at the lower
