Page 27 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)

S he lost track of time.

The days bled, one into the next, into the next, into the next.

Her inner flame kept her warm, and soon, she learned how to light a fire with her fingers.

She remained alone.

During the remainder of the journey to Sendouk, Layna practiced controlling her powers.

As Najoom galloped across the rocky terrain, she closed her eyes and focused on the ever-present light pulsing within her.

At first, it felt like one thick, thrumming cable that branched through her limbs, but slowly, she was able to differentiate the rhythms that flowed through her.

There were three unique, intertwining cables; one was gentle and calm, like a small, flowing stream. When she reached for this power, a soothing aura passed through her, and her hands began to glow. This was the light that healed Zarian.

Another type of light coiled around the first, pulsing brighter and hotter. When she called to this one, it felt as if every hair on her body stood on end. It was fast and bold and powerful. When she focused on that cable, her fingertips began to crackle.

The last coil of light burned the hottest. It raged around the other two cables, writhing beneath her skin, desperate to be freed, its buzzing near deafening.

Layna didn’t reach for this one.

While they were seated on the ground during a break, this coiling tendril of fury snapped against her mind when Zarian used his dagger to cut open his palm and insisted she heal it.

She scowled at him, but to her surprise, the power came easily this time.

The serene, lapping light heeded her command and healed his wound.

And then he cut himself again. And again. And two more times after that until tell-tale fatigue weighed down her limbs.

He hoisted her onto Najoom as if she weighed nothing, then mounted behind her and pulled her flush against him. He dragged his lips across her neck, laving at her pulse until a breathy moan escaped her.

“You did so well,” he whispered in her ear, and goosebumps erupted across her flesh. “We’ll practice again tomorrow.”

Her answering glare burned hotter than the light inside her.

Soon, the exhaustion from using her power pressed down on her eyelids, and she dozed off against his muscled chest.

Layna was unsure how long she slept, but when she awoke, the landscape had morphed—tan, rocky earth had given way to green grass and tall, leafy trees. When they passed an apple orchard, she gasped at the bright red fruit.

Apples rarely made their way to Alzahra.

To her surprise, Zarian tugged on the reins until Najoom stopped. They dismounted, and she picked the shiniest apples she could find, eating three of them, one after the other, while Zarian watched, his lips quirked in a soft smile.

He looked at her as if there was nothing he could deny her.

They strolled back to Najoom, and she waited for Zarian to mount first, but he shook his head.

“You ride in front. Maybe you can take another nap,” he teased with a lazy smirk. She rolled her eyes but obliged him, climbing atop Najoom and scooting forward in the saddle. His solid weight settled behind her, muscular arms encircling her waist.

After ten minutes of riding, Zarian revealed his ulterior motives.

He transferred the reins to one large hand and used the other to trace a tantalizing path up her inner thigh.

Skimming up to her belly, he traced winding patterns that had her squirming against him.

His fingers inched up her side, across her chest for the barest of moments, leaving her a panting mess.

Smoldering desire twisted through her, settling low in her core.

Teasing fingers traced her collarbone, up the hollow of her throat until he reached her lips.

He brushed his thumb over her lower lip, until she grew impatient and sucked it into her mouth, biting down.

His deep groan vibrated against her, and she pressed back harder against him.

The humming of her blood grew frenzied, the buzzing in her ears, louder. Fiery tendrils of need snaked through her veins as he pulled his thumb from her mouth and dragged it back down her neck.

And then his touch was gone.

“You’ve had enough, I think.”

Her eyes snapped open, and she tried to whirl around, but he held her firmly in place. Her breath escaped in angry pants as she struggled against him.

“Shhh, easy,” he whispered in her ear.

He shushed her.

The arrogant, condescending man had actually shushed her.

She was seething now, the buzzing in her ears drowning out the sound of the wind and rustling leaves.

“Shhh,” he murmured again. “Don’t fuss. You’re worse than Naj.”

The power inside her writhed, angry and furious, and he held her tighter in response, immobilizing her with his arms, bracketing her legs with his muscular thighs.

“Such a needy little thing, aren’t you?” he crooned in her ear.

The bright, raging light thundered in her ears, while his words sent pure want coursing through her. It was a strange, heady feeling, to be so angry yet so aroused.

“I could take you right here, with Najoom galloping beneath us, and you’d let me. You’d love it actually, I think. Naughty princess.” He tsk ed.

Layna saw white.

He eased his hold, then, and squeezed her thigh until it hurt, grounding her in the sensation, before rubbing a soothing hand over it. He pinched her leg again, harder this time, and she gasped.

The buzzing in her ears dimmed slightly.

Covering her hand with his own, he guided it to her other leg, tightening his hand around hers until her fingers were digging into her skin. She focused on the pain, the physical sensation—

—and the pulsing in her ears slowed.

She took deep, steady breaths until the raging power inside her quieted.

And then Zarian’s hands began to wander again.

After three days of torturous caresses and stolen kisses, they arrived in Senta, Sendouk’s capital.

Her body thrummed with need. Zarian had tormented her relentlessly, not granting her release even when they made camp each night.

She was so tightly wound, even the gentle press of his thighs against hers, the solid wall of his chest against her back, set her nerves alight as they rode into the city.

She had to admit that his methods, though unbearably cruel, had been effective. Each time he provoked her anger, it was easier to tamp down on the raging power that threatened to explode. It was comforting knowing she could see her mother and sister without fear of harming them.

Layna drank in the unfamiliar sights: Senta was a large, busy city.

The kingdom of Sendouk was known for its unmatched vineyards and flourishing orchards, and Senta was evidence of its prosperity.

The streets were paved with neat, square stones and lined with shops and homes and inns.

Black and red banner flags, Sendouk’s royal colors, crisscrossed from rooftop to rooftop, fluttering in the cool breeze.

Intricate flowerpots decorated most street corners.

Layna recognized the purple zuhur from Alzahra’s gardens, but the drooping white flowers and blue ones were unfamiliar to her.

Her mind conjured up Soraya’s smiling face, and a sharp pain radiated through her heart, sudden and suffocating. She squeezed Zarian tighter.

As they trotted through the city, they passed two markets, brimming with fine clothing, jewelry, and other goods, with a third market yet to be seen. Most Sendouki citizens were well-dressed, though there were gaggles of urchins—orphans most likely—darting between them.

It seemed not everyone benefited from Senta’s prosperity.

“Do you think they’re already here?” she asked.

Zarian had been tense, stiff against her back since they entered the city. He shook his head. “I’d guess they’re about a day behind us. Faster travel may have been hard for your mother.”

She glanced back at him. “Are you all right? You seem on edge—more than usual.”

His lips pressed into a grim line. “Senta might appear wealthy on the surface, but there’s danger here.”

Zarian booked a room at a small inn in a quieter part of the capital.

As soon as the door closed, Layna pushed him into the wall and claimed his lips in a passionate kiss, their teeth knocking together.

She sucked his lower lip into her mouth, biting until the coppery tang of blood bloomed her tongue.

Her fingers fisted his tunic, and he yanked it off in one smooth motion.

She ran her hands over his skin, desperate for the feel of him against her.

Her body thrummed with desire after three days of riding an edge he wouldn’t let her crest.

He reached underneath her, grabbing the backs of her thighs and hoisting her up. Her legs wrapped around his waist, mouths still locked in a frantic kiss. Zarian walked them into the washroom, kicking the door shut with a loud thud.

They emerged two hours later, clean of days’ worth of grime, hair dripping and skin rosy from the hot water—unlike the small town in Janta, prosperous Senta had hot, running water in every building.

The innkeeper provided a meal for their first night, and they devoured it now that other needs were sated.

When they finished, Zarian pressed a kiss to her brow. “I’ll go see if there’s any news on Jamil. I doubt they’ve made it, but no harm in checking.”

“I’ll come with you.”

Zarian shot her an apologetic look, lacing his baldric over his tunic. He had scrubbed it clean of blood in a small stream, but had frowned at the holes the arrows had left.

“Someone might recognize you.”

“Not in my niqab , they won’t.”

“Layna—” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “The Medjai might be waiting for us. And Senta isn’t safe.” His face darkened, but he didn’t elaborate.

She frowned, brows drawing together. “I don’t want to spend the entire journey locked away in different rooms.”

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “My entire life, I did what was expected of me. But I’ve left that behind. I want to live . It’s not what I imagined, but I finally have a chance to see the continent. I don’t want to squander it.”

Zarian weighed her words, tension lining his shoulders.

“I’ll go alone tonight,” he finally said. “Tomorrow, we’ll go together.”

Layna sighed. She could agree to that. “All right.”

Zarian exited the inn, his posture stiff. He hadn’t forgotten his last visit here—his outrage at working with the Gundaari, the blood he had spilt, and the child.

The child.

He could still see the little boy’s face, eyes wide and frightened. Swallowing deeply, he shook himself out of his thoughts. The boy was safe and far from here, a teenager by now.

He headed down familiar streets, passing men throwing dice, vendors selling street food, and laughing children playing alone far too late into the night.

His gaze lingered on them, but he forced his feet to keep moving until he reached the jewelry district.

Rows of shops stretched on either side of the road.

A cart rolled past, its driver swatting the horse mercilessly with a branch.

Zarian gritted his teeth, his fingers flexing at his sides.

He walked past shops selling gold with women flocked to the front and stores selling rare gems, until finally, he reached a small, unassuming storefront. Sahar’s Taj was written on the door in a curving script.

Hand on his sword, Zarian entered.