Page 162 of The Moon's Fury

“The sun,” she explained, gesturing toward the window. “Zuhurwilts under too much direct sunlight.”

“Ah,” the man said, bemused. “Thank you. The plant was my wife’s idea. We just took over the inn, and she thought it would be more welcoming. She loves flowers.”

“Smart woman,” Jamil said, entwining his hand with hers, giving her yet another smile.

Bill settled, the innkeeper showed them to their room.

Jamil set down their bags before thoroughly checking the space.

“Hungry?” he asked, rifling through his bag when he finished. “I’ll go get us something—”

“No,” she interjected. “Go to the apothecary and buysilpharoonleaves.”

“Yes, Princess,” he said with a wide grin.

The innkeeper called out a greeting as he darted back inside, a small pouch ofsilpharoonleaves clutched in hand. He took the stairs three at a time, long strides erasing the distance to their door.

It slammed open, forceful and eager.

A melodic laugh reached his ears.

Soraya was sprawled across the bed, all damp curls and bare, glowing skin.

His breath left his lungs.

He wasn’t sure it would ever return—not with the way she was looking at him, dark eyes shimmering with desire and mischief and something dangerously close to devotion.

For him. All of her—for him.

He didn’t register crossing the room, or the clothes falling from his body, or the way the mattress dipped beneath his weight. Only the press of her soft skin, the taste of her lips as he claimed them.

Mine.

They lay in a contented heap of limbs on the bed, sounds of hushed whispers and gentle kisses drifting through the quiet room. Jamil’s chest pressed against her bare back, his palm flat over her belly. Feather-light kisses danced across her neck and shoulder like raithbees darting in the breeze.

A satisfied hum escaped her, and she felt Jamil’s masculine chuckle before she heard it. He pulled her tighter against him, arms secure around her. They didn’t need words—Soraya couldfeelthe immense love radiating off him. It seeped into her body, soothing, warming, healing her heart until it was whole.

Part III

The Island

64

Therustedhingeofthe iron door creaked loudly as his jailer opened it. The man set down his tray of food, then quickly turned to leave, not meeting his gaze.

His jailer never met his gaze.

Tahriq’s joints creaked louder than the cell’s door as he retrieved his meager meal. At least there was bread today with his watery broth.

He’d lost track of the time he’d spent down here, in the dank bowels of the palace he’d once ruled.

Zanjeel came to gloat at least once a week. Ruslayn used to come more often than that, but the hateful man had been absent of late.

Tahriq finished his pitiful meal quickly, licking every crumb from his gnarled fingers. He relieved himself in the designated corner of his cell, his nose long since immune to the stench of his own filth.

He lay down on his matted, straw bed with a weary sigh.

Fate had dealt with him justly.