She is to hunt, as a kajira

Seeing the wrapped food on my pack, I knew, even in Scar’s absence, that he intended me to hunt. No command had been spoken, nor was one necessary. I knew him well enough by now to understand the meaning of what he had left for me. Yet this would be a very different hunt. Today, I would hunt as a slave rather than as a Free Woman of the Panther Girls. What troubled me was how little authority I would have once the kill was made. I could track the beast, bring it down, and dress the carcass, but everything afterward would lie beyond my control. The kill would belong to Scar. Whether he chose to use the meat, hide, bones, or any other part of what I brought home would be his decision, not mine. For as long as I served my punishment as his kajira rather than his Mate, even something as deeply rooted in me as taking food from the forest had become subject to his will.

The realization tightened my jaw. I had to walk two paces behind him now instead of at his side. I had to ask permission to sleep upon the furs of the sleeping platform, a place that had once seemed as naturally mine as his. Worst of all, I could no longer reach for him simply because I wanted the comfort of his body beside mine. Even that small privilege required his permission. I drew a deep breath and forced the thoughts aside before they could consume me. There would be time enough to wrestle with my pride when I returned. For now, I had a hunt to make.

By habit, I checked each piece of my hunting gear. My knife and quiver of arrows were secure, my spear was sound, and the straps of my pack sat firmly across my shoulders. Last came my bow. I ran my fingers over the leather for a moment before rising, feeling its familiar weight settle against me. The Northern Forest received me as it always had, indifferent to the rules that now governed my life. I moved beneath the trees with my bow in hand, my steps quiet upon the earth as I read the forest almost without thought. A bent stem, a faint disturbance among the leaves, a print pressed into soft soil—each spoke to me in a language I had known since childhood. Gradually, the anger twisting inside me yielded to the concentration the hunt demanded. In its place came the familiar stillness that settled over me whenever I became one with the forest.

For some time, I followed the spoor of a tabuk before finally catching sight of my prey. I lowered myself into the brush and studied its movements, allowing the forest to conceal me as I waited for the right moment. My fingers moved along the bowstring almost without thought. For a little while, I forgot Scar, forgot my punishment, and forgot that I was meant to think of myself as kajira rather than Mate. There was only the tabuk, the bow, the wind, and the quiet rhythm of the forest. When the moment came, I drew and held my breath, then released the arrow with the certainty born of years spent hunting. I watched the animal fall and remained still for several breaths before approaching. Kneeling beside the kill, I placed my hand upon its hide and silently acknowledged the life I had taken, as I had done so many times before.

This time, however, the familiar ritual brought neither satisfaction nor a sense of ownership. I had taken the life, yet the kill was not mine. With practiced care, I cleaned and dressed the animal, my knife moving steadily through hide and flesh despite the turmoil within me. I separated what could be carried from what would remain behind, being sure to include the hide. When I finished, I wrapped the meat in broad leaves and bound the bundles tightly enough to hold during the journey back and lock in the scent. Looking down at what I had prepared, I felt something twist inside me. Once, I would have thought of this as providing for myself and the man who shared my fire. Now I could not even decide where the meat would go or what would become of it. That decision belonged to Scar.

Rather than carry the bundles all the way to the cave, I chose a sturdy tree nearby and climbed into its branches. I secured the wrapped meat high above the ground, where it would remain protected until Scar returned and told me what was to be done with it. After checking each bundle twice, I climbed down and stood beneath the tree, looking up at what I had taken from the forest. The meat was safe, and the kill was secure, yet neither truly belonged to me. The thought settled heavily in my chest. I had spent my entire life believing that freedom meant answering to no man. A Panther Girl hunted because she chose to hunt. She took what the forest offered and decided how it would be used. She walked where she wished, slept where she wished, and touched whom she wished.

Now each of those small freedoms had become something I had to measure against Scar’s will. I had to walk two paces behind him instead of beside him. I had to ask permission to sleep upon the furs. I had to ask permission to touch him. Even something I had killed with my own hands was no longer mine to use as I pleased. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the rough bark, trying to understand why that last loss seemed less important than the others and yet cut more deeply. It was not merely the loss of deciding what became of my kill. It was knowing that I could return to the cave, see Scar, and want nothing more than to reach for him—yet still have to stop myself because I no longer possessed that right.

That was what angered me most. I hated that I missed him. Beneath my pride and the stubbornness that had carried me through every hardship of my life, I wanted the comfort of his presence. I wanted to sit beside him, feel his hand upon me, and reach for him without wondering whether I had permission. Yet for now, I was not his Mate. I was his kajira, and this punishment was forcing me to confront something I had never expected. I had always thought of submission as belonging to women who had been conquered, women who had surrendered the strength that made them who they were. Scar had not taken the hunter from me. He had not stripped away my skill, my knowledge, my ability to survive, or my place within the forest. Instead, he had placed boundaries around the very things I had always believed belonged solely to me and required me to live within them.

I pushed away from the tree and gathered my things, glancing once more at the bundles hidden among the branches. The forest had given me what I had come for, and I had done exactly what a hunter must do. Still, I would return to the cave knowing that I had hunted for another, and that knowledge sat strangely upon me. Perhaps that was what made this punishment so difficult. Scar had not asked me to become weak. He had asked me to obey. For a woman like me, who had spent her entire life believing that no man would ever have the right to command her, those were two very different things. I was beginning to understand that it was the second that truly tested me.

Before leaving, I cleaned each tool I had used and returned it to the place where Scar would expect to find it. If I was to please him, then everything had to be put away properly. The thought sparked another flare of indignation, and I snorted softly at my predicament before turning toward the water. I scrubbed the sweat, dirt, and blood from my skin, careful not to disturb the marks Scar had placed upon me. Those marks were not to be washed away. They were the marks of a kajira, and although my pride rebelled against what they represented, I could not deny the weight they carried upon my skin.

Once I had washed as Scar preferred, I settled on a fallen log and unrolled the leaf containing the food. For a moment, I simply looked down at it, struck by the absurdity of eating what he had provided while the meat I had hunted remained hidden in the branches nearby, awaiting his decision. Then I began to eat slowly and carefully. I accepted the meal because he had left it for me, and because I knew he would expect me to eat it. It pleased him to provide for me, and he would expect me to acknowledge that by accepting what he had given.

The bites of food I first nibbled at eased the sharpest edge of my hunger, but it did little to quiet the thoughts turning within me. I was still Melete, still a hunter of the Panther Girls, still capable of moving through the forest and taking what I needed to survive. Yet I was also Scar’s kajira, marked as his and bound, for this next hand, to obey him. I lowered my eyes to the meal and continued eating, knowing that when he returned, he would see whether I had done everything as he expected.

Secretly, and with a depth I did not want to admit, I wanted him to be pleased.