Page 46 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)

H is friend left, urging them to leave and find shelter elsewhere.

So, they packed up their meager belongings and headed in search of a new home.

She didn’t ask him again when he would leave.

“Ready?” Jamil asked, securing the last of their bags to Ahmar. She could scarcely look at his stupidly handsome, clean-shaven face.

The one they had shaved together only thirty minutes ago—an offer she deeply regretted. It had been extremely intimate, not something she had expected at all.

Her heart battered against her ribcage, cheeks still warm.

Last night, she had dreamt of him. It had been so vivid, she thought it real.

Jamil had woken her with soft brushes of his hand across her neck and chest, sending pleasant shivers blooming through her.

He’d peeled back her blanket and covered her body with his larger one, his breath hot against her neck.

He was so moonsdamned big , and when she actually awoke, her body ached with need.

And then she’d offered to help him shave, like a flaming idiot.

She needed space from him, some respite from the maddening, traitorous feelings coursing through her.

She took a deep breath, filling her lungs. They’d get to Sendouk. Another breath. They’d find Layna and Zarian, and she’d find her way back to Almeer.

Almeer, her first and only love.

Almeer, who had no idea what happened to her or where she was.

Almeer, to whom she needed to remain faithful.

“Soraya?” he repeated, jolting her out of her thoughts. “Are you ready?”

“Y—yes,” she breathed, forcing a smile. He mounted Ahmar and extended a hand, helping her clamber up behind him.

As they rode toward Sendouk, she remained resolutely upright in the saddle, leaving as much distance as possible between their bodies.

But as the hours wore on, her back began to ache, and fatigue weighed her down.

The strong, muscular pillar of his back beckoned her to lean forward, and she relaxed against him.

Ahmar jumped over a large branch in the path, and Soraya yelped, jostling in the saddle. She wound her arms around his waist, squeezing tightly. Her head came to rest against his shoulder.

She was weak.

When Ahmar’s stride smoothed out, she didn’t let go.

Hours passed, and soon, Senta, Sendouk’s capital, came into view.

Jamil tensed as they neared. It was a wealthy city, though there were more orphans than she’d expected.

Red and black banner flags flapped overhead as they passed through the streets.

There were planters with purple zuhur that reminded her of her own blooms in the palace gardens, white zanbaq with its large, drooping petals, and blue lutas .

Her fingers itched to reach for the soft petals, to smooth the rich soil, but she turned away.

Jamil stabled Ahmar at an inn, and they walked together through the streets.

A crowd had gathered ahead, and a lanky, bearded man was shouting at the citizens to disperse.

They ignored him, eyes fixed toward the sky.

She followed their gazes, craning her neck and shielding her eyes against the sun.

Across from a sweets cart, there were men repairing the charred roof of a building—ladders were stacked against its face, and men holding bricks clambered up, shouting toward more workers at the top.

“Stay close,” Jamil murmured, his eyes scanning the dense crowd. He tucked her against his side as they waded through, his muscled body warm against hers. When they emerged on the other side, he put a respectful distance between them.

She pretended she didn’t miss his warmth.

They reached a jewelry shop called Sahar’s Taj. There was one customer inside, haggling with the shopkeeper, a tall, clean- shaven man, a red turban wrapped around his head. He waved to them, indicating he’d assist shortly.

She meandered through the shop, examining the different displays. Toward the back, there was a small case of ornate daggers. Black velvet lined the inside, and four beautiful, gem-laden daggers lay on the soft surface. There was an indent in the velvet where a fifth dagger was missing.

“How can I help you?” the shopkeeper asked, pulling her attention. Jamil scanned him from his deep, red turban down to the scuffed sandals on his feet.

“I seek that which the night conceals,” he said, his voice low in the small room.

The shopkeeper’s eyes widened, appraising Jamil’s face and lingering on his scar.

“He said you’d come,” he breathed. The tall man disappeared beneath the counter, the clicking of a safe sounding out.

He emerged with a piece of folded parchment, sealed with a drop of dried wax.

There was no sigil, only three straight lines, perhaps etched with a blade or clean quill.

Jamil opened it, and his deep sigh crushed her hopes.

“When did he write this?” he asked, holding up the parchment.

“He and the woman left weeks ago, brother,” the man said sadly.

Jamil cursed under his breath. He handed her the note—they had left for Shahbaad, likely passing them on the way.

“We’ll never catch up,” she whispered, her heart constricting in her chest.

“Maybe they’ll wait longer in Shahbaad,” Jamil said. She looked into his green eyes and knew he didn’t believe his own words. His hands wavered at his sides, and he clenched them into fists. He turned back to the shopkeeper. “Is the room still stocked?”

“Yes, brother. Follow me.”

He led them through a narrow hallway to a small space in the back. Jamil explained that Baran, the turbaned shopkeeper, kept this room for Zarian.

Baran left them alone. She sat at a small desk and watched as Jamil scoured through boxes and satchels, inspecting weapon after weapon before deciding which ones to take. Amongst the weaponry, there were two pouches, heavy with coin, that he pocketed.

He checked the room one last time before standing before her. He handed her a sword—it was smaller than his, the hilt a simple, matte black. She examined it, testing its weight. It was heavier than she was accustomed to, but not overly so.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured. She moved to hand it back, but he shook his head, drumming his fingers against his sides.

“It’s yours. I mean, if you want it. I can help you train, keep your skills sharp.” His eyes found hers. “Zarian mentioned you’re quite good with a sword.”

Her lips curled into a sad, yearning smile. “Layna and I would train together often.” A sharp pang pierced her heart. Her sister had likely sat in this very chair weeks ago.

Moons, she missed her. She had no doubt Layna was safe and happy—Zarian would move the heavens and earth just to coax a smile from her lips.

But Layna was her best friend and closest confidante, and there was so much she wished to tell her.

Her watery eyes cut to Jamil.

Though she had a feeling she knew what her sister would say.

“I’m sorry we missed them.”

“It’s not your fault. If Mama hadn’t insisted on traveling to Shahbaad first, we would have caught them.” She chewed the inside of her cheek. “How will we find them, Jamil? I know you don’t believe they’ll wait for us in Shahbaad.”

He sighed wearily, leaning against the desk where she sat.

“You’re right. Zarian won’t remain long in one place, not with the Medjai hunting them.

Especially not in Shahbaad. But he’ll leave a trail for me.

I’ll take you across the entire continent until you’re reunited with your sister.

Beyond it, if we need to. I give you my word, Soraya. We’ll find them.”

A wet tear slipped down her cheek. Jamil’s hand wavered again, indecision warring in his eyes.

Slowly, almost reverently, he wiped her tear away with his thumb.

Her eyes cut to his emerald gaze, and she could’ve sworn there was yearning reflected back.

She’d seen it often enough in Zarian’s eyes when he watched Layna.

Jamil faltered, as if snapping out of a fog. He pulled his hand back, and his eyes shuttered.

Something squeezed her heart.

She ignored it.

“Thank you,” she whispered instead. He nodded, avoiding her gaze.

They bid Baran farewell, exiting into the street and heading toward the inn. On the way, they stopped to buy a simple lunch of manakish . The warm flatbread topped with minced lamb seemed a feast after surviving on rabbit.

Soraya stopped in front of a shop selling women’s clothing. “Can I buy a few things?”

“Of course,” he said, opening the door for her. The shopkeeper, an elderly woman, greeted them. Her curious gaze appraised Soraya quickly, but lingered too long on Jamil’s scar. He stiffened beside her, and an instant dislike for the woman coiled in her chest.

The elderly woman tugged her away, trying to entice her to buy the most expensive abayas and shawls. She refused every item, quickly selecting simple, warm garments and a new cloak. When she was finished, the woman brought her items to the counter.

“Do you have bamboo cloth?” Soraya whispered, glancing over her shoulder. Jamil was heading toward them.

“Newlyweds?” the woman asked with a toothy grin.

Moons, Soraya hated her. Her cheeks heated.

The shopkeeper’s smile grew impossibly wider.

“Newlyweds,” she said to herself, nodding.

The woman grabbed several strips of thick bamboo cloth and stuffed them at the bottom of the bag.

A begrudging gratitude bloomed in her chest for this small act.

“Do you need silpharoon leaves? I just got a new batch.” She furiously shook her head.

As Jamil counted the coins, the woman kept her hawk eyes fixed on Soraya. “Have you been to Senta before? Something about you seems … familiar. I can’t place it.”

Soraya shook her head. “First time.”

“Shame,” the woman tutted. “Should’ve come sooner. You missed the harvest festival.”

Jamil handed her the money, and the woman grunted her thanks.

They exited the shop, Jamil carrying her bags, and continued their trek to the inn. They had only passed two streets when Jamil froze, a panicked “ Fuck” leaving his lips. Before Soraya could formulate a question, he grabbed her arm and yanked her into the alley.

He dropped the bags on the ground, his eyes panicked.

In the next heartbeat, Soraya found herself pressed against the stone wall, Jamil’s large, muscular body caging her in.

Her breath left her in a whoosh.

She lost the ability to string together a coherent thought. His firm chest was unyielding against her, and his large hands gripped her thighs, bringing one up to wrap around his hips.

Her eyes widened, and she found some words.

“Jamil, what—”

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, green eyes frantic. His hot breath fanned against her lips. “There’s a man heading our way, he’s—he’s going to recognize me.”

His fingers tightened on her thigh.

Her heart beat furiously against her ribs.

“How do you know him?” she whispered.

“He gave me my scar.”