Page 48 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)

S he was a horrible person.

She had betrayed Almeer.

And she had enjoyed it. If that man hadn’t catcalled them, her limbs would still be coiled around him, her mouth still pressed to his.

She quickened her steps and heard Jamil’s deep sigh behind her, his footsteps receding slightly. Good. He was giving her space.

She needed it.

Warring thoughts twisted in her mind like dark, writhing vines, fighting for dominance.

She loved Almeer.

She did, she did, she still did.

And Almeer loved her. He had no idea where she was, and Soraya knew, deep in her heart, he’d spend the rest of his life waiting for her.

But the strongest vine was a bright, emerald green. It snaked over the rest, vying for her attention.

Soraya pressed her fingers to her still-swollen lips. She could no longer deny that something had shifted within her heart. She’d always seen Jamil as a friend, but these past few weeks together had convoluted her feelings, mingling friendship with respect, admiration, gratitude, desire.

And maybe—

“ SORAYA! ”

Jamil’s panicked shout rang out behind her, then something barreled into her back, knocking her forward. There was a loud thud, a pained grunt.

The shouts grew louder.

She spun.

Jamil was crumpled on the floor, a pile of bricks scattered haphazardly around him. Loud cries rang out from above, but they were muffled against the ringing in her ears.

“Jamil!” she cried, rushing to kneel beside him. He groaned.

He was awake, thank the moons.

“Can you sit up?” she asked, her heart beating a punishing rhythm in her chest. His eyelids fluttered, blinking rapidly until his clouded gaze was sharp once more.

“I’m fine,” he rasped, rotating his shoulder and wincing. A group of men was approaching. “Missed my head. Are you all right? I knocked into you pretty hard.”

A disbelieving, hysterical laugh tore from her throat.

“I’m fine, you idiot.” She sniffled.

When had she started crying?

Men surrounded them, helping Jamil up and dusting off his clothes, replacing the bags in his hands, all the while uttering aggressive apologies.

“Should I call for a doctor, sahib ?” one mustached man asked, patting Jamil’s arm.

Jamil waved him off, rotating his shoulder again to appease him. “Come on,” he said, and she fell into step beside him.

Her panic faded, but her heartbeat didn’t slow. She glanced at him every few minutes, worried eyes scanning his face for any sign of pain. There was none.

They reached the inn, quickly checking on Ahmar before heading to their room. As soon as the door closed, she pulled the bags from his hands.

“Let me see your shoulder,” she demanded.

Jamil eyed her warily. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

She bristled. “Why not?” He didn’t respond, averting his gaze, and she understood. “Because of the kiss?”

He looked anywhere but her. She tilted her chin, worry and anger and embarrassment warring for dominance.

“Look, it didn’t mean anything.” A muscle feathered in his cheek. “We were avoiding those men. Take off your tunic. I’m not some feral cat. I can control myself.”

“Well, I can’t!” he snapped. His green eyes blazed with anger, matching her own.

An angry Jamil was a rare sight, and the tangled web of her feelings grew ever more knotted.

He pursed his lips before continuing, “My shoulder is fine. I can tend to it myself. It may have meant nothing , but best not to tempt more nothings .”

He grabbed his pack and disappeared inside the washroom.

Jamil emerged twenty minutes later in fresh clothes, dark curls damp. He was favoring his right shoulder, but Soraya didn’t comment on it.

She had no right to.

Instead, she headed to the washroom. Scalding water sprayed down as she aggressively scrubbed every inch of her skin, hoping she might wipe away the stench of betrayal along with the grime.

But which betrayal?

Almeer she had betrayed once physically, but her heart had crossed that line many times now.

And when she remembered Jamil’s face—his refusal to show her his injury—somehow, it felt like she had betrayed him, too.

When she emerged from the shower, Jamil had already set out dinner— arayes , lamb-stuffed pitas, and stacks of sweet, honeyed meshaltet . It seemed he had raided the street food vendors while she washed up.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, glancing at him. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

He gave a curt nod. After a moment, he said, “A Medjai killed by a fallen brick? Zarian would’ve laughed himself hoarse.” His smile was tentative, a peace offering, and she matched it with her own.

“Who were those men earlier?” she asked, dipping the corner of her arayes into white, tangy sauce.

Jamil measured his words. “The Gundaari.” She raised a brow, and he elaborated. “A criminal organization. Robbery, trafficking, smuggling. Pick any crime, and they have their hands in it. The Medjai have … worked with them. I don’t know the full extent.”

She snorted. “I’m not surprised. The Medjai prey on orphans and turn them into mon—” She cut off abruptly with a gasp, cheeks burning, and an awkward silence crept in between them.

“It’s all right,” he said quietly, staring at his plate. “I know what I am.”

“That’s not what I—”

“The man from earlier,” he cut in, “he’s the leader of the Senta branch. I was on a mission here, and it didn’t go as planned.”

“Was Zarian with you?”

“No. This was after his brother’s banishment. He was searching for him. I was with a different group.”

“What happened?” she asked softly.

“I had completed the … mission here,” he said, and Soraya heard the words he didn’t say.

Assassination . “There were men herding a group of boys into a caravan. Nothing good was awaiting them. I killed the men and freed them, but more Gundaari had arrived by then. Including their leader. His men held me down while he carved into my face. He would’ve done more, but my partners had come searching for me.

The three of us posed better odds, and the Gundaari fled.

We let them go and brought the children to safety. ”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, because what else could she say?

He shrugged. “It’s all right. I hate my scar. It’s a constant reminder of that night.”

They finished their meal in silence.

“I like it,” she said suddenly. He arched a brow in question. “Your scar. It makes you look more handsome. Rugged. Interesting.” His lips tipped up. “And it’s a reminder that you’re a good man. The Medjai tried to shape you into a cold, ruthless assassin, but they couldn’t corrupt your good heart.”

He said nothing, but the sadness in his green eyes receded, replaced with something so warm, so intense, she tore her gaze away. She chewed the inside of her cheek before asking, “Is there a deck of cards lying around? Let’s play ronda .”

They played three rounds, and Soraya won all of them. She whooped, setting down four maaliks with a flourish.

“You’re very good,” Jamil said, smiling as he gathered the cards.

“Layna beats me regularly. I’ve had a lot of practice.” She yawned, stretching her arms in the air.

Her gaze halted on the narrow bed.

The one bed.

They’d slept beside each other every night for weeks, but that was out in the open, under the night sky and millions of stars.

Somehow, it seemed different in a bed behind a locked door.

Jamil must have sensed her thoughts because he said, “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“You’re hurt,” she protested. “You take the bed.”

He shook his head. “We can argue all night and not sleep at all. Or you can take the bed.”

She was poised to argue, but he set his jaw and grabbed the blankets, laying them out on the floor as far from the bed as he could manage.

Soraya sighed. These stubborn, proud Medjai . She nestled into the bed and nearly sighed again. After weeks of sleeping on the hard ground, the mattress felt like a soft cloud.

She was asleep within minutes.

Her eyelids slowly fluttered open. The room was dark, moonlight casting shadows across the floor.

A low groan echoed in the air, followed by the rustling of blankets. Sleep, insistent and irresistible, coaxed her lids closed again, her breaths slowly evening. Another grunt sounded out, then a pained gasp.

She sat up. “Jamil?” she whispered, eyes bleary. “What is it?”

The rustling stopped.

“Nothing,” came his reply from the room’s farthest corner. His voice was crisp and sharp, not blurred at the edges by sleep like hers. “Go back to sleep.”

She rubbed her eyes. “Have you slept at all?”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying. I can hear you tossing and turning.”

He didn’t respond.

“Is your shoulder hurting?”

Silence.

Then, “It’s fine, Soraya. Go back to sleep.”

Irritation curled inside her. “I can’t sleep with you making so much noise. Let’s switch.”

A deep, exasperated sigh escaped him. “You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

“I slept on the ground for weeks while we were traveling.”

“That was different. There was no other choice. Go back—”

“If you tell me to ‘go back to sleep’ one more time, I’ll throw this candle at you,” she snapped, gesturing toward the bedside table. She wasn’t even sure if he could see her. “Is it against your moral code to let a woman sleep on the floor?”

Another long-suffering sigh. “Soraya, please.” He sounded tired.

“Just come up here, then.”

Silence descended, so heavy, it sucked the air from the room.

Then, she realized she was holding her breath.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said finally, his voice low in the dark room.

Her irritation bloomed into anger. What gave him the right to decide what was good for them or not?

“You can’t sleep on the floor with your shoulder aching. I can’t sleep on the bed with you grunting and groaning. We have a long day of travel tomorrow. Get. On. The. Bed,” she gritted out, fists clenching the bedsheets.

He was silent for so long, she nearly reached for the candle.

“Are you sure?” he finally asked.

“Yes! I promise your modesty is safe from me.”

The floor creaked as he rose, and a shaft of moonlight illuminated him as he neared.

Her breath caught.

Jamil was right.

This was a terrible, horrible idea.

When the fuck had he taken off his shirt?