Page 64 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)

S crape.

Scrape.

Scrape.

Consciousness returned to Wilzad before his senses. Fuck, his head was pounding. What the fuck happened? He groaned, the pain in his head splitting his skull in half. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt like he’d swallowed half a desert.

Blinking, he waited for his eyes to adjust. There was nothing but darkness.

Scrape.

Scrape.

Scrape .

He tried to rub his eyes, but his arm wouldn’t heed his command. What the fuck is going on? The pounding in his head intensified, as if it had patiently waited for him to wake before becoming truly unbearable.

Awareness slowly trickled into him as he shifted. With dawning horror, he realized his arms were tied behind his back — no, to a tree . He tried to shout, but there was a rough piece of cloth stuffed in his mouth, another one covering his eyes.

His heart hammered against his chest, finally sensing the sheer danger he was in.

Wilzad racked his brain, trying to remember what the fuck happened.

He had been at the tavern. It had been a successful night—five more men had agreed to return with him.

He definitely drank too much in celebration. And then he’d left alone.

Scrape .

Scrape.

Scraaape.

Icy needles of fear pierced his heart. He wasn’t alone.

“Hmnfo?” he tried, but the ratty gag made it impossible to speak.

The scraping stopped.

Cold silence surrounded him, stretching for several minutes, and Wilzad realized he preferred the scraping.

“Oh, good,” drawled a deep voice from behind him. “You’re awake.”

“Mmmph,” Wilzad tried to plead. “Mmph! Lemgme gho! Pleeth!”

The voice tsk ed, a casual dismissal that made his bones ache with fear. Leaves crunched as the man shifted—he must have been leaning against the same tree Wilzad was tied to.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” the man said directly into his ear. Wilzad flinched, recoiling away as much as possible. Something cold and sharp glided along his jaw, sending a shiver down his spine. He went still, fear locking his body in place.

“I am going to state a fact,” the man continued, unfazed. “If I’m right, don’t say a word. And if I’m wrong…” The sharp edge traveled down to his neck. Wilzad swallowed, and the blade pinched farther into his throat.

He whimpered.

“If I’m wrong, you can do some more of that muffled begging. Understand?”

Wilzad didn’t dare move, dare breathe.

The tip of the blade pressed in harder.

“Do. You. Understand?” the man growled. This time, Wilzad nodded vigorously. His captor removed the blade.

“You’ve been luring innocent men and boys to their death in Valtisaan.”

The words were a punch to the gut.

Shock froze his mind, his tongue. How could he have—

Something sharp burrowed beneath his fingernail.

Wilzad screamed, realizing he hadn’t denied the accusation. He thrashed against the bonds until his back was raw from the tree bark.

Tears streamed down his cheeks, soaking the blindfold, but his anguished, pained wails were lost to the night. His captor finished removing his fingernail, then let out a deep sigh.

As if the bastard were bored.

“That was the easy part. I’m going to remove the gag. If you scream, I’ll cut out your tongue. Answer my questions, and we’ll see where the night takes us. Understand?”

Wilzad nodded weakly.

With rough hands, his captor removed the gag but left him blindfolded. A rattling cough clawed out of his bone-dry throat.

“Water?” he rasped.

Silence.

“Please,” he begged, his voice cracking.

He could see nothing. Fear slithered through his veins like poison. After a moment, Wilzad felt something press against his lips, and he greedily gulped down water, but his captor pulled it away before he had scarcely taken two sips.

“Did you come here alone?” the man asked casually, as if he were inquiring about the weather. Wilzad bobbed his head. “No partner? No other recruiters ?” He shook his head frantically.

“No,” he rasped. “Just me.”

“Hmmm,” his captor mused. “What do you offer them? The young men you recruit .” Wilzad focused on the man’s cold voice—he feigned nonchalance, but every word was undercut with a sharp edge, ready to knife into him.

Wilzad must have taken too long to respond, because rough, calloused hands gripped his face, fingers digging in painfully.

“I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.”

“I—money. I promise enough money for a better life.”

His captor’s silence was a heavy, violent shroud, settling over his shoulders with the promise of pain.

“How do you target them?” the man demanded.

He didn’t seem so nonchalant anymore.

“Listen, if it’s money you want—”

The man stuffed the gag back into his mouth and clamped his jaw shut with one large hand. Sharp pain sliced through his face, from temple to cheek. A pained, muffled cry tried to escape, but couldn’t—his captor’s hand over his mouth was a fortress.

“We’ll get to that. Answer my question.” The man removed his hand. Something warm and wet dripped down the side of Wilzad’s face, and he blinked back tears.

With a shuddering breath, he whispered, “I look for loners. Those with no family, no one to come looking for them. Desperate souls.”

“And how many of them make it back home?”

Wilzad swallowed.

“ How many make it home? ”

A skipped heartbeat, a stab of dread.

“None,” he whispered.

The silence stretched, long and cold.

“The treaty with Alzahra—does Tamzin plan to send sihrrock ? He agreed to send resources.”

“How do you—” The knife found its way inside his mouth.

Instinctively, he clamped his teeth around the blade before it reached any deeper.

His breath escaped in short pants, heart thundering horrifically.

Painstakingly slow, his captor slid the knife out from between his lips, the sharp blade threatening a kiss.

“No! No, he isn’t. The treaty was voided by King Ebrahim. ”

Another heavy silence descended.

“Who is expecting you to check in?”

Wilzad knew, in this moment, he would not survive the night.

“You’ll kill me anyway.”

“Yes,” the man agreed. Wilzad was surprised he’d admitted it. “But how merciful I am, that’s up to you.”

“I’m supposed to take the new recruits to Shahbaad next week.” The man was silent, likely calculating how long it would take for someone to realize he was missing.

“Where are you staying?”

He was going to die. Desperation curled in his bones. “Please, sahib . I have a wife.”

His captor sighed, sounding almost disappointed. Leaves crunched underfoot, and Wilzad heard footsteps heading behind the tree. The tip of the blade pressed against another fingernail.

Wilzad couldn’t bear it. “No! No, please. At the Mahabaar Inn.”

He breathed a sigh of relief when the man removed the blade, checking the knots tying his hands together.

“What are you— mmph !” The gag was stuffed back in his mouth. Wilzad heard his footsteps growing fainter as he walked away.

“ Mmph !”

Was he going to leave him?

He tried screaming through the gag, but nothing escaped save the sad, garbled sounds of a man marked for death. Wilzad screamed and cried and raged until he had no more energy. Tears streamed anew down his face, and the stench of his own piss filled his nostrils.

It was no use.

He must be too far out for anyone to hear his pitiful sounds.

Wilzad lost track of time. It might have been minutes or hours. He might have dozed off, he might have remained numb.

Eventually, the man returned.

His footsteps were silent—Wilzad didn’t hear his approach, just the snickt of an unsheathing blade.

His captor was right beside him.

“ Plth ,” Wilzad tried to beg, but the man didn’t remove the gag this time.

If nothing else, his captor was a man of his word.

The cold, sharp blade kissed his throat for only a moment, a warm rush of blood seeping into his tunic.

Then, there was nothing.