Page 65 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)

I t was well past midnight, and Zarian still had not returned.

Layna paced anxiously, wringing her hands.

Worry wound a tight leash around her heart, and in response, it thundered rebelliously in her chest. She did six more circuits around the cramped room until the creak of the door pulled her attention.

Zarian trudged in, his footsteps heavy. He shut the door behind him and managed a tight, pained smile. Her eyes scanned him from the tips of his unruly hair down to his muddy boots.

He was unharmed.

Physically, at least.

His hazel eyes were haunted, pain and guilt and resignation warring within their glimmering depths.

With a start, she realized she’d seen that look in his eyes before—the morning after he’d interrogated Varin in her palace’s dungeons.

She’d been so consumed by the eclipse and her own worries, she’d never bothered to ask about it.

But she saw him clearly now—her good man burdened by the shadows of what he’d done.

Without a word, she crossed the room, wrapping her arms around him tightly. His body was stiff, unyielding like the mountain beneath their feet. He shrugged off his cloak and dropped his bag, a heavy clink ringing out as it hit the floor.

“I had Lash bring up hot water. It’s still steaming,” she murmured.

He let her lead him to the washroom, let her tug off his boots and undress him, her hands gentle, reverent on his tanned skin. Zarian sank into the water soundlessly, leaning back against the metal tub, eyes closed.

Kneeling beside him, Layna dumped in a generous amount of bath salts. She soaked a washcloth and rubbed it over his chest, her movements slow and methodical. She expected him to stop her, insisting he’d do it himself, but to her surprise, he let her.

Zarian spent every moment caring for her, protecting her, spoiling her.

So rarely did he let her return the favor.

She savored every moment.

She moved behind him and kneaded the tense muscles of his neck and shoulders. His head dropped forward with a low groan, and she pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck.

“Thank you,” she whispered against his skin. Wrapping her arms around him as best she could manage, she rested her head on his broad shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry they did this to you.”

He didn’t reply, lifting his hand from the water to thread his fingers through her hair.

“I’m not,” he finally said, his voice hoarse. “It brought me to you.” He rested his forehead against hers. “You ease the heaviest burdens. Numb the deepest wounds,” he murmured, his breath warm against her lips.

He closed the distance between them with a gentle, chaste kiss.

“How did you cope before? With your missions, I mean,” she asked softly, tracing the black whorls of his tattoo.

He took a deep breath, as if gathering strength, before answering. “I drank. It helped take the edge off. Helped me forget. Helped me sleep. And when I stopped drinking, I—sought company.”

A kiss to the tip of her nose—an apology.

But his words didn’t rouse jealousy. A deep, aching sadness seeped through her, quickly followed by the need to console.

“And what do you want to do now?”

“Exactly what I’m doing.”

Layna awoke to Zarian trailing kisses from her ear to her shoulder. She groaned, squinting against the sunlight. He chuckled, tugging at her earlobe with his teeth.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I couldn’t resist.”

It had surprised her last night when he was content to just hold her. Her body was his favorite distraction from the deep-seated pain that had made its home within him.

Her breath hitched as his tongue traced the contour of her ear, his fingers playing with the hem of her nightgown.

It seemed he was ready for that distraction now.

She turned to face him before his skilled fingers danced any higher on her thighs—the sunlight kissed his face, making his hazel eyes glimmer.

“Tell me about last night.”

His sigh spoke of resignation. He shifted to lie on his back and brought her along with him, one arm tucked behind his head. His muscled chest was warm under her cheek, the beat of his heart, steady.

“I found the man easily enough in the tavern. When he left, I followed. He had been drinking, and it was easy to subdue him. I brought him deep into the forest, away from the city and its watch, and restrained him. When he finally awoke, I—questioned him. He admitted none of the men ever return home, that he targets those with no other options. That was mostly it,” he finished, his voice hollow, as if he’d left his soul back in those woods.

“His body…”

“Won’t be found.” He sighed, and she nestled closer, pressing her lips to his chest. “We need to leave tomorrow. I’ll handle Lash.”

Soft nickering met his ears as Zarian stepped into the stables where Lash stood tending to Najoom. Over the past few days, the horse had grown comfortable with him, and now Lash brushed his sleek, night-black coat, murmuring quiet encouragements under his breath.

“Lash.”

The boy turned.

His grin vanished as his eyes dropped to Zarian’s hands.

Setting his jaw, he resumed brushing Najoom.

“I don’t want yer pity.”

Zarian pulled up a stool. “Valtisaan is not safe, Lash. I’ve been there.” The boy kept his focus on the black stallion. “You can’t help your sister if you’re dead.”

At this, Lash finally turned. His gaze was hard, eyes fixed on what Zarian was holding.

“Your name isn’t Zem, is it?” he asked quietly.

Zarian didn’t answer. “This is for you,” he said instead. He pressed the hilt of the sheathed sword into Lash’s hands. “Try not to stab yourself.”

“Ya’re giving me yer sword? Don’t ya need it?” His fingers were gentle, reverent on the hilt.

“It’s Ahna’s sword, actually. And she has another one, now. This one was too big for her anyway. But it’s perfect for you. Once you grow into it.” Lash shot him a dark look, but he couldn’t stop the smile forming on his lips. “I can show you some maneuvers before we leave.”

“Thanks,” Lash said, pressing a hand over his chest. His eyes widened as Zarian reached into his bag and pulled out a heavy pouch. “No, no, no. Yer an idiot if ya think I’m going to take that.”

“You’re going to take it,” Zarian said firmly, pressing it into his hand. “Pay off your debt, then go. Leave the inn behind, and tell no one where you’re going.”

“And … where are we going?” he asked, a crease marring his smooth brow.

Zarian shrugged. “That’s up to you. Minhypas? Thessan, maybe. You can decide what to tell your sister.”

Lash considered his words, weighing the heavy pouch in his hand. “I don’t want yer charity.”

“Consider it a favor. You can owe me one back, if that makes you feel better about it.” He didn’t look convinced, hand poised to return the pouch.

“Lash. Please. Take the gold. For Ahna’s sake.

Somehow, you’ve managed to weasel your way into her heart.

She won’t have any peace if she thinks you’re in danger. ”

War raged in Lash’s eyes, but Zarian could see he’d already won.

Zarian spent the rest of the day with Lash in the stables, teaching him various forms, strength exercises, and swordfighting techniques, while Layna watched, occasionally helping him demonstrate different maneuvers.

“Not going to pin me this time?” she teased, her sleek, new sword clanging against Zarian’s as she blocked his strike.

He grinned broadly. “Maybe later.”

Behind them, Lash groaned loudly, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, Moons, spare me from these two .

Zarian leveled his sword at him. “You’re up.”

Brows furrowed, Lash stood opposite Layna. Without warning, she thrust her sword at his neck. He fought to block her strike as Zarian had taught him, his movements clumsy—but at the last moment, he managed to parry.

Strike, block, strike, duck .

Lash was a natural. Panting, he said, “Now I know why ya can’t peel potatoes to save yer life.”

She spun, ducking under his blade and coming up behind him, sword pressed to his throat. “And why’s that?”

“Yer partial to bigger blades.”

She laughed, sheathing her sword. Zarian stood nearby, arms crossed over his broad chest, observing their spar. When she stepped aside, he took her place, driving Lash straight into a grueling set of drills.

With one last look, she reluctantly went inside to check if Lasha needed help with dinner. They’d formed a shaky truce the other night in the kitchen, though Layna wasn’t necessarily itching to spend time with her.

“Do you need help?” she asked, leaning against the kitchen doorway.

Lasha looked up from the sink, startled. There was a streak of flour running through her hair. “I’m mostly done. Just washing up now.” She nudged her head to the steaming pot on the stove. “Ya can start plating dinner.”

Layna grabbed the neat stack of porcelain bowls on the counter and began ladling the thick lentil soup, her mouth watering at the delectable aroma.

“You’re a great cook,” she offered, glancing over at Lasha, who gave her a tight smile in return.

With the dishes washed and dinner plated, she helped Lasha carry two large trays outside where Zarian and Lash were still training.

The younger man was panting, sandy dirt smudged on his face, and perspiration dampening his hair.

They set down the trays and watched as Zarian gave Lash a few final pointers.

“You’re a very lucky woman, Ahna,” Lasha murmured wistfully. Layna’s eyes cut to her sharply. She followed her gaze, expecting her to be watching Zarian, but it was Lash her eyes found instead.

Lash, whose face was glowing, radiating pure happiness despite the aches and pains he surely felt. So she pursed her lips and bit back her sharp retort.

Because Lasha was right.

She was, indeed, a very lucky woman.

The next morning, before first light, the four of them were together again in the stables.

Najoom stood ready, his black coat glossy and healthy.

Lash pulled Layna into a tight hug that lasted nearly two full minutes.

“Thanks,” he murmured into her ear. Layna squeezed him tighter, tears pricking her eyes.

To her surprise, Lash pulled Zarian into a hug next.

They led Najoom through the stable door and left Tarakshan slightly better than they’d found it.