Page 12 of The Moon's Fury

Layna flung herself back into the seat, heart hammering even faster, gaping at her glowing fingers.

The carriage door flew open, and she shoved her hands behind her back, head snapping to see who entered.

It was Zarian.

“What is it?” he asked, concern etched across his face as he sat beside her. Layna slowly brought out her hands, but they appeared completely normal. She held them aloft with a fearful sort of awe.

“My fingers,” she whispered, eyes wide. “They were glowing.”

The color drained from Zarian’s face.

7

Squeak.

Squeak.

Squeak.

The pump announced her laziness to anyone still in the vicinity of the village square, though thankfully, most sensible townsfolk had already headed home.

The setting sun cast long shadows across the ground. It had been nearly an hour since her mother asked her to fetch water from the village’s only well. She’d gone for a walk instead, the sun’s rays beckoning her down a brightly lit path.

Squeak.

Her arms ached by the time the bucket crested the mouth of the well. She reached for it, but muscular, sun-bronzed arms snatched it first.

“Bit late for water, no?” He grinned, with those full, sensuous lips, and she forgot how to form words. He towered over her, the setting sun illuminating his honeyed hair like a radiant halo.

He’d been seeking her out more often lately, often appearing unbidden where he had no business—the seamstress’s shop and the wheat fields. Sometimes, he loitered near her family’s cottage and offered to accompany her wherever she was headed.

She couldn’t say she minded.

“I’ll walk you home,” he offered, arching a brow, as if waiting for her to challenge him.

She smiled back. “Yalla,” she said, waving at him to follow.

The ground was still muddy from the heavy rain they saw a week ago, and her thatched sandals sunk into the wet earth with each step. They reached the long line of homes past the square. Her brown cottage was the same color as the mud squelching beneath her feet, brightened only by the colorful wildflowers her mother had nurtured in wooden planters outside their windows. Two houses over, his family’s home was nearly identical.

“I’ll take this out back,” she said, reaching for the bucket.

He held it away. “It’s heavy. I’ll carry it.”

She arched a thick brow, strange, tangled feelings simmering inside her. She’d been carrying this very same bucket to and from the village square since she was ten summers old.

But her heart rejoiced because he wanted to prolong his time with her.

“All right,” she said, ducking toward the side of the house toward a small courtyard in the back. He set down the bucket and turned to her, eyes darkened.

He stepped closer, and her heart spasmed in her chest.

Another step, and her palms began to sweat, a searing warmth spreading through them.

One last step, and their toes were touching. Her chest brushed against his with every deep, nervous breath.

“May I kiss you?” he asked softly, dark eyes earnest. She nodded breathlessly, and he tilted her face up. Her eyes closed and lips parted, unbidden.

His lips were soft on hers, gentle and warm. Large hands found her back, pressing her closer against him, while her palms settled on his broad, firm chest.