Page 38

Fatima sat beneath the shade of a lone acacia tree, a short distance from her tent, grinding dried herbs between her fingers. The rough bark pressed against her back, grounding her as she worked, carefully separating leaves from stems, crushing them just enough to release their healing properties.

She was preparing herbal tea for Tara.

The girl had been quiet all morning, her face pale, her movements sluggish.

With dried peppermint and fennel in her lap, Fatima focused on the task, rubbing the leaves together to ensure they would infuse well in the hot water. The soothing tea would help ease Tara's discomfort, but even as her fingers moved with practiced ease, her thoughts wandered elsewhere.

She needed to speak with Oman.

Her conversation with Ruksaar had stirred something deep within her, something she could no longer ignore.

She had pushed Oman into this marriage.

For her sake—her foolish, desperate sake—Oman had agreed to marry Tara.

The memory weighed on her now, heavier than it had ever been. She had convinced herself it was the right thing, that it was necessary. Oman had always been a man of duty, of sacrifice, and she had asked him for one more.

She had promised him it was only temporary. That he wouldn't have to be bound forever.

Fatima knew her brother well. He was not a man who offered tenderness easily. He was fierce, unyielding—a warrior before all else. He would never settle for something soft, something delicate. Someone like Tara.

But now—now was the time to set everything right.

The burdens that had once held her back were no longer there. She could care for Tara herself. She could finally give her child the life she deserved. Oman could be free—free of this bond, free of the weight he had carried for her.

But Tara wasn't a burden.

Her child—her quiet, gentle Tara—had never been a burden.

Fatima's hands stilled over the herbs, her fingers tightening slightly around the brittle stems. A deep ache settled in her chest, spreading through her ribs like a slow-burning fire.

And Fatima would make sure Tara never felt like anything less.

Not again.

She inhaled deeply, steadying herself, ready to face what needed to be done.

Fatima moved through the camp with purpose, her steps quick, her mind still tangled in thought. She was close to Oman's tent when movement in the distance caught her eye.

Layla stormed out of Kasim's tent, her face twisted in barely contained fury. Her fists clenched at her sides, her breaths heavy and uneven.

Fatima's eyes narrowed as she quickly stepped forward, intercepting her. "What happened?" she asked, her tone calm but edged with curiosity.

Layla's nostrils flared. "Ask your beloved brother," she spat. "That bastard removed me from the warband."

Fatima's brows lifted slightly in surprise. "Layla, language. And why would he do that?"

Layla shook her head, stepping back as if the words themselves disgusted her.

"I fought with these men for years. I earned my place, and now he thinks he can throw me aside?

For what? Does he believe he can strip us of our rights and remove all women from the warband?

" Her voice rose, thick with frustration. "I want my answers!"

Before Fatima could respond, Kasim stepped out of his tent, his presence immediately shifting the tension in the air.

"Layla," he said, his voice firm, carrying the weight of unspoken authority.

Layla's rage faltered for the briefest moment, her gaze flickering toward him before she turned and stormed away, anger still pulsing through every step.

Fatima watched her go, confusion settling in her chest. She turned to Kasim, searching his expression for answers.

Kasim met her gaze evenly. "Don't mind her, Fatima," he said. "Oman must have his reasons, and to be honest, I don't want to interfere or interrupt his decisions. It's up to him now."

Fatima nodded slowly, understanding his words but still unsettled.

She would hear the truth from Oman himself.

Fatima moved through the camp. She had expected Oman's decisions to be harsh, but to remove Layla from the warband? That was unlike him. There had to be something more.

But as she searched for him she couldn't find him. It was only when she passed a group of men near the weapons rack that someone finally spoke.

"He went toward your tent."

Fatima's steps faltered.

Her tent?

Why would Oman be there?

She quickened her pace. But as she approached, that unease hardened into something sharper, something cold.

She stepped inside.

Oman stood in the middle of her tent, his broad frame tense, his hands curled into fists at his sides. But what sent a chill through her was his expression.

He was staring at the tent walls, unmoving, his gaze hollow, empty.

But as she took a step closer, he turned.

His eyes met hers, and for the first time in years, Fatima felt real fear.

His gaze was murderous.

"Where is Tara?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

Fatima's breath caught. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

"What do you mean?" she asked carefully, her voice steadier than she felt. "She must be somewhere else in the camp"

Oman didn't blink. "No."

The air between them thickened, her pulse a slow, creeping beat in her ears.

"She's not in camp, Fatima."

He had been searching for her everywhere. His eyes had looked for her. He thought she was ignoring him. But when he couldn't find her anywhere, he had come to Fatima's tent. To his disappointment, she wasn't here either.

The words dropped like stones in Fatima's chest.

No. That wasn't possible. Tara had been in pain, she had barely moved from her tent all morning.

"She wouldn't just leave," Fatima said, shaking her head. "She wouldn't—"

"Then where is she?" Oman snapped.

Silence.

Fatima felt it then—the sharp, gut-wrenching realization creeping into her bones.

Fatima ran outside to search for tara leaving oman in deep thoughts.

The moment the realization struck Oman—that Tara was truly gone—something inside him snapped.

He stormed through the camp like a man possessed, his sharp, commanding voice slicing through the air.

"Find her."

The order was absolute. No one dared to disobey.

He grabbed the nearest man by the collar, his grip unrelenting. "Did you see her leave?" His voice was low, deadly.

The man shook his head frantically. "N-no, I swear it, commander."

Oman shoved him aside, his fury barely contained. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths as his gaze scanned the camp, eyes burning. He had searched every tent, every shadow, every hidden place she could have crawled into.

"Tara!" he bellowed. His voice echoed into the chilly wind of evening, a call laced with something raw, something primal.

Nothing.

She wasn't here.

A cold sweat broke over his skin. His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His heart pounded against his ribs, a violent, unsteady rhythm.

She was gone.

No.

He wouldn't accept that.

His mind raced, every muscle in his body wound tight with panic. Had someone taken her? Had she run away? He could barely breathe at the thought.

Someone dared to take what was his?

A sharp, feral rage took hold of him.

His voice turned guttural as he barked out orders. "Search the outskirts. Search the entire goddamn desert if you have to. But find her."

Men rushed to obey, but there was hesitation—fear in their eyes..

Fatima stood frozen, watching her brother with something close to horror. "Oman—"

She had seen Oman furious before. She had seen him spill blood without hesitation, his hands steady, his judgment cold.

But this—this was different.

Oman was unraveling before her eyes.

His shoulders were rigid with tension, his hands shaking with the force of his clenched fists. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, like he was barely holding himself together.

And then—his eyes.

God, his eyes.

They burned.

Not just with rage. Not just with the unbearable weight of losing something he had claimed as his.

But with something far more dangerous.

Something Fatima had never thought possible for Oman.

Love.

The realization left Fatima shaken, unsteady.

All these months, she had believed Oman had married Tara out of obligation. Out of duty. Out of some misplaced sense of honor.

She had been wrong.

So very, very wrong.

His head snapped toward her, his expression wild. She looked like a man under possession, like he would kill anyone right there.

"Where is she, Fatima?" His voice was a raw whisper, as if speaking too loud would shatter what little control he had left.

Fatima had no answer.

Oman exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair, his entire body vibrating with restless energy. He turned on his heel, moving toward the horses.

"I'll find her myself."

"You can't just—" Kasim tried to step in his way, but Oman's deadly glare stopped him cold.

"Move," he growled.

And Kasim did.

The camp watched in silence as Oman mounted his horse, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with something dangerously close to madness.

"I swear to God," he muttered under his breath, his hands tightening around the reins. "If anyone has touched her—"

He didn't finish the sentence.

He didn't have to.

Oman spurred the horse forward, disappearing into the night like a shadow on the wind.

Kasim commanded his men to follow Oman ans search for tara everywhere. They did exactly what kasim told them.

The desert stretched vast and endless beneath the cold silver glow of the moon, Oman rode like a man possessed, his fingers digging into the reins so hard the leather threatened to snap. Wind tore at his cloak, sand stung his skin, but he didn't slow.

Because she was out here.

His pulse thundered, his heartbeat a violent, unsteady rhythm that matched the pounding hooves beneath him.

His mind was a chaotic storm, flashes of her face, the softness of her presence—all of it colliding with the unbearable thought that she was gone and with her, she had taken the last shred of control he had left.

She was going to make him crazy someday and he was sure of that.

Oman—!" Rashid called from behind him, but Oman barely heard him. The wind howled in his ears, but nothing, nothing could drown out the frantic, obsessive need clawing at his chest.

It was past midnight when they reached the outskirts of camp, searching the dunes, the valleys, the abandoned paths where only the wind dared to tread. But she was nowhere.

Oman ordered the men to scatter in all directions and search for her.

The sand led them further into the emptiness, winding between dunes, disappearing and reappearing as if fate itself was taunting him. Oman's eyes burned as he scanned the landscape, his breath ragged, his mind a relentless chant—

Find her. Find her. Find her.

Then—

A shadow.

Two shadows.

His body tensed. His vision tunneled.

Tara.

She stood beneath the moonlight, her form barely visible against the pale dunes. But she was not alone.

A man stood beside her. Tall. Well-dressed. A stranger.

Oman didn't think. He didn't hesitate. He didn't breathe.

The world snapped into black and white.

With a guttural snarl, he leapt from his horse, landing hard enough to send sand scattering beneath his boots. The man turned, his expression shifting from surprise to alarm—

Too late.

Oman's fist collided with his jaw with a sickening crack.

The man hit the ground like dead weight.

The pain in Oman's knuckles barely registered. The roar of blood in his ears drowned out everything else. His breath came in short, ragged bursts as he loomed over the man, who groaned, dazed.

Not enough.

Not nearly enough.

Oman grabbed the stranger by the collar, hauling him up just to drive his fist into his ribs. Again. And again. And again.

A furious, mindless rhythm.

"Oman, please stop," Tara's shaking voice fell on his ears.

But he didn't care.

He didn't know how many times he struck him.

All he knew was that Tara stood there watching.

Watching him, with fear?

Something inside him cracked, but the rage was too strong, too overwhelming, drowning out the voice in his head screaming at him to stop.

He wasn't done.

Someone dared to take what was his?

Another blow. The man coughed, blood splattering the sand.

Hands grabbed Oman's arm, trying to wrench him back.

"Oman—enough!" Rashid's voice was sharp, urgent, but Oman barely registered it.

The man slumped forward, groaning in agony.

Oman let go, shoving him back to the ground, his own breath coming in ragged bursts.

His men dragged the stranger away, pulling him from Oman's grasp.

And then, slowly, he turned to Tara.