Page 44 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)

W hen morning came, she pretended to sleep while he readied to meditate.

“I know you’re awake,” he called. She ignored him, burrowing deeper into the blankets. She heard his sigh, then his receding footsteps, as he left the cave.

Last night, there had been affection in his eyes. Longing, even. She could still feel the ghost of his touch on her cheek.

Why had he pulled away?

She didn’t have time to contemplate further because the sound of voices reached her ears.

They weren’t alone.

Cautiously, she approached the mouth of the cave.

She saw him, sword drawn.

Opposite him were three men.

“We thought the witch had killed you, brother,” drawled the one farthest from her. His cold voice sent shivers of dread crawling through her. “We came to kill her in your name. You’ve surprised us.”

He didn’t have a chance to respond, because one of the men saw her. Between one breath and the next, he’d nocked and loosed an arrow. Her feet unfroze, and she dove out of the way, but still it grazed her shoulder, a thin stream of blood dripping down her arm.

Chaos erupted in the clearing.

There was a flurry of movement, clanging of steel. She couldn’t tell which sword belonged to which man. Her light buzzed inside her, eager to be freed, but she silenced it—the men were moving so quickly, so close together, she couldn’t trust her aim.

One of the attacking men, a bulky man with rust-colored hair, seemed to switch sides, and then the fight was more evenly matched.

Twelve horrifying heartbeats later, it was over.

Two men lay dead.

The remaining two stared at each other, panting heavily.

“Son of a donkey,” sputtered the stranger between heaving breaths, dropping his sword and sprawling on the ground, brassy hair glinting in the sunlight. “Go check on her.”

He swiveled then, gray eyes appraising her, before refocusing on the man. Satisfied he wouldn’t attack, he darted over to her. Worried eyes assessed her shoulder, a gentle hand tipping her chin.

There was a gash on his face, a limp in his stride.

“You’re hurt,” she croaked.

He shook his head. “This is nothing.”

The light inside her disagreed.

It rushed through her veins, flowing to her hands until her palms were glowing. Tentatively, she brought them to the wound on his face. When her hand came away, the gash had closed, leaving not even a scar. They stared at each other in shock for a heartbeat, before his gaze sharpened with concern.

“Your nose is bleeding,” he said, wiping the blood away. “Come rest, Shamzaadi.” He led her to sit beside the firepit.

“Shamzaadi, eh? Adorable. That’s not what everyone else is calling—”

The man was silenced by a hard punch to his arm.

The two men tended to their remaining wounds. Then, they disappeared to bury the bodies of the fallen men, brothers in another life, somewhere deep in the forest.

When they came back, the three of them sat around the fire.

“When none of you returned, we assumed she”—the rust-haired man shot her an apologetic glance—“had killed all of you. I’ll go back. Tell them I saw no sign of you, and that I was able to … finish her.” Another pursed, sorry smile in her direction.

“Why?” he asked, sitting beside her, so close that the length of their thighs pressed together. “This is your chance to leave. Why waste it on us?”

Us .

The word bounced around her insides before settling pleasantly in her belly.

“You’ve saved my life time and time again, brother. And”—his gaze darted between them—“opportunity will find me again. You’ve already found freedom. I’ll not see it robbed from you.”

“…and this is how you sharpen it.” Jamil dragged the whetstone across the dagger’s blade.

She rolled her eyes. She’d asked him to teach her how to hunt, and he was being exceedingly thorough. “I know how to sharpen a dagger. How different can it be from a sword?”

Jamil’s lips curved into a soft smile, his straight teeth glinting in the firelight. It was a rare, beautiful sight, and her traitorous heart clenched.

It had been doing that quite often this past week.

Only because we’ve been alone together for so long .

It’s normal for anyone to desire their only companion .

“Not very different from a sword,” he agreed. “Ready?” He helped her off the ground, and a spark skittered along her skin where his hand touched her.

They walked together into the forest, footsteps quiet in the night. Jamil pointed out a good spot for a snare and showed her how to construct it with a few pieces of wood and a thin rope.

They knelt behind a bush and waited. Whenever her gaze left the snare to find Jamil, his eyes were already fixed on her. She gave him a tentative smile, and his eyes dropped to her lips.

Traitorous warmth pooled within her.

She cleared her throat, and he averted his gaze.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed after that, but eventually a rabbit approached their snare and was quickly trapped.

“Do you want to do it?” he whispered, holding out the freshly sharpened dagger. His green eyes were bright in the moonlight.

Soraya eyed the dagger, then flicked her gaze to the trapped, pitiful hare. She shook her head. “Next time.”

She couldn’t watch as Jamil did the rest.

“It’s done,” he said softly. He angled the rabbit’s body away from her, always considerate. She’d grown increasingly aware of his quiet kindness during their travels.

He always offered her the tenderest, juiciest cuts of whatever game they roasted over the fire.

More than once, she had stirred in the night to find his blanket draped over hers while he lay uncovered, arms tucked closely beneath his body.

And just yesterday, she’d mentioned in passing that she was tired of nuts and eager to resume a normal diet in Sendouk. This morning, without a word, he’d set a handful of freshly picked berries beside her breakfast.

She eyed him sideways as they headed back toward their campsite, dinner in hand. He met her gaze, his lips curving in a soft smile.

She tripped, quickly righting herself, cheeks burning.

When they reached camp, Jamil skinned and cleaned the rabbit while she prepared the spit over the fire.

Silence stretched between them, and for the first time, it felt awkward. Soraya never had a shortage of words or questions, teasing comments always poised to pour from her lips like water from a jug.

But tonight, she was struggling.

Now that they were alone, without her mother as a chaperone, something felt different.

Not Jamil; he was still the same, kind man.

It was her .

Her eyes tracking the flex of his biceps as he brushed down Ahmar.

Her ears desperate for the rare, rumbling sound of his laughter.

Her nose that had grown accustomed to his fresh, cedar scent.

Her body that was painfully aware of his beside her at night.

Suffocating, needling guilt coiled around her heart. They’d reach Sendouk tomorrow, and a change of scenery would help. Maybe she could take a walk alone, without his emerald gaze constantly finding her, and clear her head. Maybe she—

“What do you miss most about Alzahra?” Jamil asked suddenly, bright eyes fixed on her. The fire cast long shadows on his face, but the white of his scar shone in the light.

“Layna,” she said immediately. “Then my greenhouse and rosebushes. And Sirocco, of course.”

The fire crackled, and Jamil turned the spit slowly.

“…And Almeer?” he asked, eyes fixed on the flames.

A deep flush crawled up her neck, painting her cheeks in embarrassment.

How could she have forgotten Almeer?

“Oh yes, of course. I miss him terribly. I just—you said Alzahra. And, um, he’s in Zephyria now, so…”

When he didn’t respond, she glanced at him from beneath her lashes. His jaw was clenched, eyes narrowed.

Her brows knit together. She was ready to ask about his shift in mood, when he spoke.

“Rabbit’s ready.”

They ate in silence, then set up their bedrolls. She spread out her blanket, the edge overlapping with Jamil’s—it was colder at night, so they had taken to sleeping closer together.

She cocooned herself in the blanket, watching as Jamil folded his muscular body down beside her. Her heart thundered in her chest at his proximity. His eyes found her, as they so often did, and she bubbled with the urge to shatter the taut silence with words.

“Have you been to Sendouk before?” she asked, even as exhaustion weighed on her lids.

“Yes.”

“Did you like it?”

“No.”

She huffed a frustrated breath. Jamil’s lips twitched, and his emerald eyes twinkled with mirth. They were the brightest shade of green, and for a moment, she was standing in her humid greenhouse, surrounded by her beloved plants.

Her eyelids became heavy as sleep slowly found her.

“What do you miss about the Oasis?” she murmured, eyes fluttering shut.

A heartbeat.

“Nothing.”

The rising sun illuminated Soraya’s face, inches away from his. This past week of travel had tested his restraint in ways he never thought possible.

His respect for Zarian had increased tenfold—how had his friend remained sane in Alzahra for months, near the one he loved yet could not have?

And Layna had actually returned his feelings.

Sometimes, Jamil fooled himself into thinking he saw something flash through her eyes—something akin to desire or affection. But he knew Soraya harbored no such feelings for him. She saw him as a friend, at best, and he was slowly going mad with want.

He’d never let himself want before.

Now, he found himself wanting to taste her lips. To wipe her tears. To fold her into himself until she became part of him and he part of her.

But she loved Almeer. She’d told him as much last night. Jealousy ignited in his veins, searing through him. Why did he deserve her love?

Almeer, with his skinny arms and thin legs. He was a diplomat, and not even a very good one. He’d never be able to protect her.

His heart constricted painfully, eyes lingering on Soraya’s sleeping, innocent face.

At least Almeer’s hands weren’t drenched in blood.

With a deep sigh, he rose and readied for the day. Soraya would be up soon—she was a light sleeper.