Page 130 of The Moon's Fury

She turned to find Zarian glaring at her as if she’d snapped his favorite sword in half. Hand over heart, he said, “I thought you loved me.”

Layna doubled over, laughing again until her sides ached.

Zarian’s lips twitched.

“He’s sweet,” she defended, taking another bite of sticky pastry. “I love that he goads you so much. Bigger men are terrified of you. He’s just a kid.”

“He has no sense of self-preservation.”

The door swung open, and Lash emerged, parchment clutched in hand. He presented his arm to Layna with a flourish—she took it with a smile.

Zarian followed close behind Layna and Lash as they walked along the worn trail. The boy was talking animatedly, gesturing toward various shops. Every so often, Layna’s bright laughter would reach his ears. Moons, he hadn’t heard her laugh this hard and this often in months.

Maybe ever.

The warm, melodic sound embraced him like a long-forsaken friend, and it somewhat soothed the burn of jealousy that coursed through him whenever his gaze landed on their joined arms. Lash glanced back and grinned, waggling his eyebrows.

His fingers flexed into fists.

The boy was a menace.

But Layna seemed happier, lighter than she’d been in weeks, so Zarian could tolerate him for a few more days.

He hoped.

They walked further into town, passing ambling townspeople and wayward goats. Layna stopped to pet one, and it began following them until Lash shooed it away. There was another mountain city adjacent to this one, a deep ravine between them. Lash waved to a friend on the other mountain, and the boy whooped back.

At the end of the trail, narrow steps were carved into the mountainside, leading to the market. It was a cramped street, with larger shops cut into the mountain on one side and a line of smaller carts on the other, blockading the cliffside.

The crowd was denser here, locals milling about, busy with their daily tasks. Armed men of the city watch, clad in leather and steel, stood at oddly spaced intervals. Zarian’s eyes scanned every face closely, but no one stood out as a threat. It didn’t ease the tension that crept into his neck.

He wanted Layna close.

“Make yourself scarce, Lash,” Zarian said, coming up behind them.

The boy turned, arm still annoyingly entwined with Layna’s, and arched a brow. “What kind of host would I be if I let ya two wander around like lost hens?”

“One that can still walk,” Zarian said gruffly. His patience was nearing its end. The boy needled him at every turn. Lash opened his mouth again, undoubtedly seeking to hasten his death, but Layna saved him with a meaningful hand on his shoulder.

“We’ll catch up with you. Finish your shopping, then find us.”

With one last annoying smirk, Lash headed off.

“You’re jealous,” Layna murmured.

“I amnot,” he denied, but the possessive hand he snaked around her waist said otherwise. He guided them in the opposite direction from where Lash had strolled off, passing stalls selling abayas and tunics, others selling pottery and dishes. Therewere a disproportionate number of shops selling all manner of weapons—Tarakshan was known for its tough, hardy warriors, like the men who joined the city watch.

Layna stopped at a cart selling paintings—bright strokes of colors and textures, radiant in the sunlight. Mountain landscapes dominated most of the canvases, interspersed with a few paintings of horses. He hovered as she browsed, enraptured as her teeth worried her plump, lower lip.

She’d been doing so much better these past few weeks. Guilt gnawed at his heart when he remembered how he’d shouted at her on the mountain, the quivering of her chin and the tears that followed.

But he’d asked her to leave it in the past—he needed to do the same. Grief was finally releasing her from its barbed hold, and as much as he hated to admit it, Lash’s antics were helping.

She held up a small canvas depicting a large, leafy tree silhouetted by the setting sun. “Would Soraya like this?” He considered it a moment before flipping through the other canvases.

“What about this one?” he suggested, pointing to a colorful painting of three potted plants atop a wooden table. She smiled, humming in agreement. They paid the vendor, a middle-aged woman with thickly braided blond hair. She pressed the coins over her heart in thanks as they ambled off. His arm slipped around Layna’s waist again, hungry for the press of her body against his.

“They’ve been struggling,” she said suddenly.