Page 29 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)
M onths and months passed—or so she thought. She didn’t always eat, and so, her moon’s blood didn’t always greet her.
Dried leaves crunched underfoot as she headed back to her cave, freshly scrubbed clothes thrown over her shoulder—they’d dry quickly in the sunlight.
Something in her heart, intuition or some other primal sense, slowed her footsteps.
The forest was quiet. Far too quiet.
No chirping birds or trilling insects or scampering paws.
She stopped short, narrowed gaze scanning the dense trees.
Nothing.
She waited three heartbeats, then three more, before finally taking a step—
An arrow whistled through the air and buried into her shoulder. A surprised cry, a stab of pain. Blood seeped from her wound into her freshly washed clothing. Another arrow followed, this one plunging into her soft belly.
A gurgled gasp escaped her.
She fell to her knees.
Three large men, cloaked in leather and shadow, emerged through the thick underbrush. Nocked arrows leveled their judgment, sharp tips glinting in the dappled sunlight.
With a loud cry, she yanked the arrows from her body, throwing them to the ground as blood wept from her wounds.
She met their wary gazes without fear, only resignation. Two of the men aimed again, their gazes devoid of emotion. The third man, however, lowered his bow.
Eyes closed, head tipped back, she knelt, ready to face her reckoning.
But the light inside her disagreed.
Outraged, untamed tendrils coiled within her, and burning rage began to fester, poisoning her veins. With dawning horror, she realized it was happening again.
“No, no, no,” she breathed, eyes snapping open. She looked at the men with panicked fear. “Run! Leave now!”
They didn’t.
Layna came into her senses slowly, reluctantly. She was in bed, covers twisted around her, moonlight illuminating the room with its gentle glow. A low moan sounded, close beside her, followed by a pained grunt.
“Zarian?” she whispered, glancing at his slumbering form. He was still asleep but restless, his body twitching, arm rising up as if fending off a shadowed attacker, trapped in the very real throes of a nightmare.
Should she wake him?
His pained groans and frantic, unintelligible words grew louder.
When he began thrashing in the bed, her decision was made.
“Zarian!” she called, shaking him. “Wake up. You’re dreaming.” She called his name again, once, twice, three times before he bolted upright, panting as if he’d just ran from Alzahra to Sendouk.
“Are—”
Her question never left her mouth because his large hand gripped her throat like an iron vise, squeezing until she couldn’t fill her lungs with even a speck of air. His hazel eyes were terrifying, clouded with rage.
In the next second, his hand was gone, and she choked on the sudden onslaught of air.
“Layna? Layna, fuck, fuck, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he rasped, tilting her head up and tracing his fingers over her neck.
“Are you all right? Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry .
” He feathered kisses all over her throat, whispering frenzied apologies, each one bleeding into the next.
“It’s all right. I’m all right,” she reassured, her voice hoarse. He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes shut tightly, hands quivering where they cupped her face.
Before she could ask if he was okay, she found herself flat on her back, Zarian’s large body settled atop hers. His shaking hands tugged frantically at her nightgown, pulling it up—
He froze.
His gaze found hers, a desperate question in his eyes.
“Yes,” she breathed, hiking up her nightgown the rest of the way.
Always yes .
Dawn was still hours away. She lay facing Zarian, his arms wrapped around her, noses almost touching. Her hands traced the contours of his back, nestling closer. The sight of him, so panicked, so desperate flitted through her mind, and moons, her heart ached.
“Was I too rough?” he murmured, eyes dropping just beneath her collarbone, where he’d left a purpling bruise with his lips and teeth.
She kissed him soundly before self-loathing could sink its sharp claws deeper into his heart. “Not at all,” she breathed against his lips. “I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Couldn’t you tell?”
He hummed in agreement, but his face told a different story—one where he was the villain.
And Layna couldn’t have that.
She cupped his face, willing him to see the love and acceptance in her eyes. “I must have woken the entire inn with my moans.” That coaxed a smile from her arrogant man, though it vanished quickly.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He shook his head, as she had expected.
“I don’t have nightmares often, but I’m not always in my senses when I do. Don’t wake me next time,” he murmured.
“All right,” she lied.