She'd spent her life training to play whatever roles her clients wanted.

Mother. Confessor. Savior. Companion.

She'd stopped being herself when the heavy wooden doors of House Madrassa had shut behind her.

The one role he cast her in was the one she'd always refused. Even for clients.

Whore.

Nandi had been a whore. He'd seen fit to take to bed with Nandi.

Inara stared at the mussed sheets. She could still smell sex on the sheets. Knew precisely how Mal and Nandi had each other.

Not in a missionary position. Too conformative and predictable for Mal.

Not up against a wall. Mal was a deliberate man who liked to be careful about things. And half-dressed against a wall was too rushed for him.

Not from behind. Too much like rutting animals for his tastes.

Not with Nandi riding him. He'd never surrender that much control. At least, not the first time.

None of those. He'd been sitting up, back braced to the headboard, with her straddling him. Looking each other dead in the eye the entire time.

Like equals. Like the one thing Inara and Mal weren't.

And what had Inara done while Mal and Nandi were busy being equals? Sat on a hard floor and ached for the knowledge that Nandi knew how to just be far better than she did.