Page 49 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)

S oraya’s mouth was drier than the Alzahran desert, all vestiges of sleep washed away as her eyes drank in his muscular form.

His tanned skin glowed in the moonlight, shadows outlining the deep ridges of his abdomen.

His sleep trousers were low, so low , on his hips, and her helpless eyes followed the thin trail of hair until it disappeared into his waistband.

Her heart stuttered.

She dragged her gaze up—his well-defined chest was marked with a black tattoo on one pectoral, thick inky whorls spiraling outward, reaching just below his collarbone.

She gasped.

Her eyes fell on mottled, purple and blue skin. The large bruise spanned nearly his entire shoulder and likely continued farther down his back. Their eyes met, and she tore her gaze away.

His bright, emerald eyes were twinkling, lips curved up at the corners. When he grabbed a shirt and tugged it on with a wince, it became painfully clear that he’d remained still until she’d finished gawking him.

A furious blush warmed her cheeks, and she prayed he couldn’t see it. When he reached the bed, though, all traces of humor had vanished from his face, and he stood before her, quiet and intense. The mattress squeaked as she made space for him, and he lay down beside her.

She was acutely aware of every point of contact between them—the length of his arm against hers, the press of her hip against his side, the brush of his ankle against her leg as he settled.

Her heart raced at both his proximity and the indecent thoughts running through her mind. She tossed and turned, searching for a comfortable position, jostling him each time.

Moons, what had she been thinking?

She shifted again, and her elbow dug into his side.

“Sorry,” she muttered, twisting, trying to find an angle where she wasn’t touching him.

Jamil let out a frustrated sound. His large arm wrapped around her middle and tugged until her back was pressed flush to his chest. His warm breath fanned her skin, and the fine hair on her neck rose to attention.

“Jamil?” she whispered. His heavy arm was still thrown over her waist.

“It means nothing.” The sharp edge in his voice cut into her heart. “This position is comfortable, and we both need to sleep.”

How did he expect her to sleep now ?

Soraya inhaled deeply, willing her heartbeat to slow. His hand was warm, pressed flat over her abdomen. How would it feel if he slid it up under her nightshirt?

Or down into her trousers.

She shifted her hips, and his hand tensed over her belly as he groaned, low and deep, the vibrations rumbling through her.

It was going to be a long night.

She tried to banish the traitorous thoughts, tried to think of Almeer and his gentle smile.

But every time she closed her eyes, she saw expanses of muscular, tanned skin and Jamil’s twinkling, emerald gaze.

Soraya awoke alone the next morning, the bed cold beside her. The muffled sound of running water reached her ears—Jamil was taking a shower. She flopped over onto her back and waited.

A few minutes later, he emerged, toweling off his dark curls.

He was wearing a tunic.

She shoved down the disappointment that welled inside her.

“Hi,” she greeted cautiously.

“Morning,” he responded. He didn’t meet her eyes, and she could’ve sworn he was blushing.

It tugged at her heart, and this time, she let it.

They left Sendouk behind and followed the path back to Shahbaad. Ahmar nickered as Soraya brushed him down, firelight dancing over his rust-colored coat.

“I’m going to hunt,” Jamil said from behind her. He didn’t ask if she wanted to accompany him.

“All right.” He disappeared between the trees, spine rigid and footsteps hurried. With a sigh, she turned back to Ahmar. They’d been traveling for two days, and things had been stilted between them since leaving Senta.

Since she had kissed him, really.

Or maybe when she had said it meant nothing.

Because it was becoming clear that it certainly hadn’t meant nothing—to either of them.

Jamil had been withdrawn since she’d said it. If it was difficult getting him to talk before, it was impossible now. There was an undercurrent of sadness that ran through his every motion, and it gutted her to see him so despondent.

And she missed him . The Jamil she had come to know—the softspoken, loyal man who had endured so much.

If Almeer had been traveling with them, would she still have come to feel this way?

Would she feel so divided?

Her heart gave a small, guilty tug—familiar, but no longer overwhelming.

With a heavy sigh, she rummaged through her pack for a change of clothing. Her fingers landed on her journal. Pulling it out of the satchel, she traced a reverent finger down the spine. A surge of homesickness overcame her.

Were the greenhouse attendants still tending to her plants?

Or had they all withered away without her care?

She sat by the fire and brought her notebook with her, thumbing through the soil-stained pages with a wistful smile.

There was pressed zuhur , the bright purple flower that dotted the palace gardens; the ingredients for her nutrient-rich water mixture that helped the roses thrive in the hot sun; monthly tracking of neendakhi stores for the palace healers.

An entire life’s work left behind.

Her fingers froze as she turned the page.

There was a new addition to her journal.

Pressed between the pages was a prickly offshoot of sumzeher .

Her pulse pounded in her ears, her entire world narrowing to the act of love before her eyes.

Because that is exactly what it had been.

Love.

Something cracked inside her chest. Something else came loose.

She knew what she needed to do.

Jamil walked back to the campsite, tonight’s unlucky meal clutched in hand.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. It had been a mistake herding her into the alley, caging her against the wall, where they shared their first kiss.

Their first nothing .

Her words still pierced his heart, even a week later. He had already known it meant nothing, that she was in love with another man.

He knew that he was nothing.

It just gutted him to hear the words fall from her lips.

He should have let the Gundaari spot him.

They’d have killed him, and that would have been easier than sharing a bed with her, her soft curves fitted perfectly against him.

Moons, the thoughts that had flitted through his mind, the restraint it took to keep his hands still.

In her sleep, she’d rubbed against him all night until he was a shaking mess of desire and frustration.

As soon as he woke the next morning, he’d bolted into the shower, desperate for release.

He reached their campsite where Soraya sat pensive by the fire, brows inching closer together with each passing second. A spark of worry flickered in his chest, a desire to console.

He shoved it down.

Quietly, he began preparing the rabbit.

“I have a favor to ask you,” Soraya said, her voice firm. “And you’re not going to like it.”

He arched a brow.

“Take me to Zephyria.”