Page 31 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)

Nearly an hour had passed by the time the elderly woman called him to the counter. “ Sahib ! Your wife is done.”

His heart stuttered in his chest.

For a moment, he wished Layna’s face were uncovered, just to see the blush he knew was blooming beneath her veil.

At the counter, the shopkeeper had neatly laid out Layna’s choices—thick-soled shoes, dark trousers made of a thick cotton, and tunics in various shades of the same material.

He noted a few lacy chemises peeking out from under a handful of dark scarves.

There was also an emerald-green abaya, overlaid with sparkling, blue embroidery.

Not ideal for two people on the run from a secret order.

He raised an eyebrow at Layna.

“I cajoled her into it,” the shopkeeper hastily said, glancing between them. “It will look lovely on her.”

“How much?” he asked.

“Thirty silver coins,” she said confidently, as if she had not quoted triple the items’ worth. “But for such a lovely couple, I’ll take twenty.”

Zarian reached for his pouch when his gaze caught on a small basket behind the counter. He leaned into Layna’s ear and gently asked, “Are you expecting your moon’s blood soon, love?” Her eyes widened, snapping to the elderly woman hunched across the counter, shamelessly eavesdropping.

“Oh, I misjudged you!” she crowed. “Big surly man, wife in niqab .” She clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. Keep her happy. She’s a ray of sunshine, this one.”

The woman added several thickly cut strips of fabric to their pile.

“ Silpharoon leaves, too,” he said gruffly, gesturing to the basket. The woman gave him a cheeky smile.

“How many?”

“All of them.”

Her eyebrows shot to her hairline, but she had the decency not to comment. Layna’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.

The woman packaged their order with deft hands. “Just passing through or staying a while? Visiting relatives?”

“Passing through,” he responded.

“Well, you can’t miss the harvest festival tomorrow night.”

He froze.

His hands itched to throttle the woman.

“Harvest festival?” Layna asked. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a frustrated sigh escaping him.

“But of course! For the grape harvest. There’s a big festival every year. Firebreathers, dancers, delicious food. You can’t miss it.” She handed him the bags with a wide smile, as if she hadn’t just single-handedly ruined his day.

As soon as they stepped outside, Layna was poised to cajole him, but he spoke before she could.

“We can’t go.”

“But—”

“Layna, no. It’s too dangerous. The entire town will be out.”

“Then we’ll blend right in,” she insisted, looping her arm through his.

“If I were the Medjai hunting us—”

“—you’d never think we’d take such a risk,” she finished. Layna rested her head on his shoulder as they walked. “A firebreather! I’ve never seen one before. And I may never have the chance again.” She glanced at him through her lashes. “I can wear the new abaya.”

He worked his jaw, his fingers flexing around the bags. “We’ll only stay for a short while,” he finally said. She beamed, pressing a kiss to his shoulder through the niqab .

He found himself wondering if he’d ever be able to refuse her anything, but he already knew the answer.

He was but a man, powerless before his goddess.

They spent the next day indoors, and Layna practiced using her powers.

She had grown skilled at healing lacerations without succumbing to fatigue.

The bright, pulsing power still drained her, though summoning it indoors provided difficult to practice.

The third writhing cable—the one forged from rage—she refused to touch.

Before she knew it, dusk had fallen. She slipped into her new green abaya, smoothing the fabric as she studied her reflection.

Delicate blue embroidery curled around the sleeves and collar, intricate as swirling wind-carved dunes.

She ran a brush through her hair, dark waves tumbling down her back.

The niqab had drawn more eyes than expected, so they’d agreed to forgo it for the rest of their stay in Sendouk.

Yet, as she met her own gaze in the mirror, she found herself missing the comforting shield. Instead, she’d lined her eyes with a bold sweep of kohl, flicking the corners into sharp wings as she’d seen on most Sendouki women.

Muscular arms encircled her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. In the mirror, hazel eyes met hers, flickering with something she couldn’t quite name.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, pressing her hand over his.

She felt his deep sigh with her entire body.

“Promise you’ll listen to me. If I say run, you run. If I say hide, you hide.”

“I promise.”

His heart pounded an angry rhythm as they waded through the crowded streets. They had stopped at Sahar’s Taj first, but there was still no word from Jamil. He clutched Layna’s hand tightly until they reached the heart of the festival.

Carts laden with street food, trinkets, silken garments and perfume lined the square in a large, bustling circle.

People wove through the stalls, voices mingling with the sizzle of meat and beat of drums. At the heart of the festival lay an empty, round dais, awaiting the evening’s entertainment.

Lanterns stretched from rooftop to rooftop, their golden glow casting shifting patterns across the square, glinting off Layna’s unbound hair like scattered embers.

The delicious scent of smoked meat wafted toward them, and they followed it to a vendor selling skewered kabobs.

They purchased one of each— shish , reshmi , and kofta —the crowd weaving around them.

Someone let out a loud cry, and he reached for his dagger and Layna at the same time, but it was just an early drunkard.

A loud gong rang out, and the crowd hushed. A bedlah-clad dancer emerged and glided onto the dais. The crowd clapped with the drumbeats as she undulated her hips and twirled her arms. Zarian averted his gaze, alternating between scanning the crowd and watching Layna’s bright, happy face.

After the dance, they wandered through the festival, weaving between stalls.

Layna selected shawls for Soraya and Hadiyah, fingers skimming over rich fabrics, before also choosing a scarf for Jamil.

But she wasn’t finished. She insisted on a gift for him as well, finally settling on an emerald-green tunic—one that matched her new abaya.

Next, they passed a vendor selling wine from the famed vineyards of Sendouk. Layna eyed the small glasses filled with dark liquid, a wistful look on her face. Against his better judgment, he found himself gesturing to the vendor. “One for us.”

Layna shook her head. “I don’t want to drink in front of you.”

“It’s all right. It really is wine unlike anywhere on the continent. You should experience it. I don’t mind.”

The man poured a shot glass and handed it to him, and he passed it to Layna. She took a small sip, and her eyes widened, meeting his in delight. He grinned at her, and she took another sip, then downed the entire glass. “That tastes like … poetry.” She smiled brightly, licking her lips.

He chuckled. “Careful. It’s strong.”

They turned to leave when the vendor called out, “ Sahiba ! You must try the white! It’s even better. Paradise on your tongue.” He poured a generous portion, and Layna accepted it from his proffered hand. Zarian paid the man, and they walked away, Layna savoring her wine.

They stopped at a henna stall next, where Layna selected a design from the artist’s book.

She sat down, presenting her palms. The henna artist used a small cone filled with earthy, brown paste to paint the design onto her hands.

The young woman snuck a glance at him, then whispered something to Layna.

With the clamor of the crowd, he couldn’t make it out.

Layna whispered back, and the woman nodded, continuing her work.

She finished quickly, and Zarian paid her.

The crowd swelled, growing louder, wilder, and he itched to leave. His gaze never settled, constantly searching for threats, for shadows that didn’t belong.

“Let’s head out soon?” he murmured in Layna’s ear. Her cheeks were flushed from the wine, and her smile rivaled the sun.

His stupid heart forgot how to beat.

“But the firebreather! We can’t leave before that.”

And so, they continued exploring the festival. He purchased fresh qatayef and fed it to her while her henna dried, then she had another glass of wine. When the anxiety in his mind threatened to overwhelm him, another gong finally rang out.

A man, clad in black leather pants and a dark, sleeveless vest, strode to the center of the circle.

His skin was slick, coated in some type of oil.

The crowd held a collective breath as fast-paced drums began to play—the man danced in time with them, his movements sharp and quick.

The music sped up, and so did he. He danced as if he were fighting an unseen opponent, jabs and flying kicks that had the crowd clapping and whooping.

The dancer pulled a flask from his belt, tipped it back, and exhaled—a plume of fire roared into the night. Layna gasped beside him, the sound swallowed by the crowd’s thunderous cheers.

He barely spared the firebreather another glance.

Instead, his attention lingered on her—the gleam in her eyes, locked onto the performer’s every movement, lips parted in awe.

Whatever trick the man performed next must have been truly extraordinary, because her eyes went impossibly wide, and her mouth fell open in pure wonder.

She turned to him, breathless. “Did you see that?”

Reluctantly, he dragged his gaze back to the firebreather in time to see flames dancing along the length of the man’s arms. The slick oil coating his skin must both feed the fire and protect him from its heat.

He breathed a sigh of relief when the performance was over. Clasping Layna’s hand, they escaped the bustling crowd.

His breathing eased as they headed back to the inn, though not by much. The streets were deserted, most of the city still at the festival. Still, he remained alert, every step tense with caution.

He quickened his pace, hoping trouble wouldn’t find them.

They were about halfway to the inn when it did.