Page 37 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)

A wry smile stretched over his lips. “He didn’t have classes with the rest of us—the crown prince had fancy, private tutors. But he did train with us every day. That’s where I first saw him. I hated him immediately.” Soraya burst out laughing, and the melodic sound eased the tightness in his chest.

“Why?” she asked, a small smile curling her lips. “Was he arrogant back then, too?”

He shook his head. “The other boys would whisper about him with reverence, like he was so much better than us.

His clothes were nicer, cleaner. And he lived in the palace while we were packed tightly together in the barracks.

I was jealous, I suppose. But the more I observed him, the harder it became to hate him.

“The instructors tested him more than anyone else. They pushed him to near breaking sometimes, and if he faltered during an exercise, he’d have to do it twice over.

Once, during combat training, he missed landing one maneuver out of ten.

General Haarith made him run nonstop for an hour during the midday heat.

I felt sorry for him that day.” A humorless laugh clawed out of his throat.

“Imagine, me , an orphan from the streets, pitying the crown prince.

“I was always watching him, searching for some flaw, some weakness that would prove he wasn’t better than me, that he wasn’t deserving of all the extra attention.

But the asshole made it really difficult.

” Soraya’s lips curved into a watery smile.

“One day, we were assigned together for sparring drills. He pinned me within seconds the first two rounds. The third round—to this day, he won’t admit it—he let me win so I wouldn’t be humiliated.

After that, we became friends, and the rest is … what it is.”

Soraya was quiet for several heartbeats. Her smile evaporated, taking any semblance of peace he’d regained along with it. What was passing through her mind?

Pity? Disgust? Indifference?

He couldn’t decide which one was worse.

“What about his brother?” she asked suddenly.

“Zaarif—Azhar,” he corrected. “He was Zarian’s shadow. Zaarif wasn’t nearly as skilled as him, and Zarian stayed long hours after training to coach him. He was just a child himself.”

“Were you close with him?” Soraya asked quietly.

She didn’t utter the name of her father’s murderer.

“I was,” he admitted, eyes downcast. “I was closer with Zarian, but the three of us often trained together. He was—”

“I don’t want to hear more about him.” Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I know he was your friend but…”

He rested a tentative hand on her shoulder. She didn’t shrug it off. “The kind boy who was my friend died years ago. I hold no love for the twisted man who killed your father.”

“I’m sorry about your friend, then,” she said softly. A heavy sigh escaped her. “Well, now I’ve gone and made things all somber. As if they weren’t bad enough.”

A chuckle rumbled in his chest, surprising him.

“We should sleep anyway. Long day of travel tomorrow.” He doused the fire, cleaning around their campsite while she set up her bedroll.

He grabbed his own and headed toward Ahmar.

“You don’t have to sleep next to the horse, Jamil,” she called. He froze, turning to look at her. “You can sleep with me. I—I mean beside me!” Her face flushed crimson, and he had never seen a more beautiful sight.

His lips twitched. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, unable to meet his gaze.

They’d been alone together under the stars twice already—once when he ferried her from Alzahra to the Oasis, and once when he brought her back.

But the first time, they had been strangers, and he’d kept a respectful distance. He had also been furious at Zarian for letting his emotions cloud his judgement and likely had been poor company. The second time, Soraya had been in shock at the news of her father’s death and sister’s coma.

As he lay out his bedroll next to hers, only a foot of space between them, the air felt different, charged. Soraya was quiet, nervous almost, as if she was realizing exactly what she had offered. Her fingers kept drumming against her leg as she sat on her blanket, watching him.

If he were a better man, he’d insist on sleeping next to Ahmar.

But he wasn’t.

He slipped under his blankets, and she did the same. They faced each other, gazes locked. Her eyes were wide. She bid him goodnight, then rolled to face away.

Her short hair had grown out during their journey, and it splayed around her head like a crown. His eyes traced the back of her head, the long line of her neck. She stretched, and he greedily tracked the movement. Her shoulder sloped delicately, the rest of her arm disappearing beneath the blanket.

If only Almeer had actually been a spy, like Alzahra’s palace guards had suspected. Then, he’d be dead, and maybe Soraya would welcome it if he peeled back her blanket and covered her body with his own. What sounds would she make? What would her skin taste like? Would she—

Moons, what the fuck was he doing?

Hadiyah had been right to make him sleep with the horses.

With a heavy sigh, he turned away.

It was a long time before sleep found him.