Page 71 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)

S oraya had never been so relieved to see a guard in her entire life.

The tall, bulky man spoke to Jamil, inquiring about their purpose in Tarakshan.

Apparently, there had been a disappearance recently, a traveling merchant of some sort, and the city watch had grown more vigilant.

Satisfied with Jamil’s answer of “passing through,” the guard waved them past.

She sagged with relief. She’d sleep in a bed tonight, maybe soak her aching, travel-weary legs in a warm bath.

Jamil led Ahmar through a path carved into stone, and she marveled at the town, etched into the mountainside.

“Have you been to Tarakshan before?” she asked as they walked.

He nodded, a grin widening his lips. Jamil smiled more often now, a fact that filled her with pleasant warmth. “I’ll show you the hot springs tomorrow.”

“Hot springs sound lovely, but…” She chewed the inside of her cheek. “Shouldn’t we leave for Thessan? What if they decided to wait there until we catch up?”

Jamil’s face was an apology. “Ahmar needs a few days to rest after the trek through the Mountains.”

“Oh, right!” A hot flash of guilt burned through her, warming her cheeks. She had noticed that Ahmar’s rust-colored coat had dimmed.

“We’ll set off as soon as he’s ready,” he reassured, hand warm on her lower back.

They reached an inn with an attached stable, and Jamil handed Ahmar’s reins over to the middle-aged stablehand, a brawny man with soft eyes. “Thank you, sahib . My brother will get you settled inside.”

He opened a side door for them and ushered them into the inn.

Soraya admired the layout—it must have taken a skilled architect to plan out construction within the mountain.

They reached the main foyer, and while Jamil squared the bill with the innkeeper, another burly man, she noted zuhur in a clay pot set on the window ledge.

The purple petals were drooping, wilted.

A pang of homesickness bloomed through her.

How did her zuhur fare in Alzahra? Her lips twisted, mirroring her knotted heart. She could do nothing for her purple blossoms, but perhaps she might help this one.

She plucked the clay pot off the ledge, examining the petals more closely.

From her periphery, she was vaguely aware that the men had stopped speaking and were watching her, but she focused solely on the flower in her hands.

Turning, she placed the plant on the innkeeper’s small table, farther from the window.

The man stared at her, then turned to Jamil as if he might offer some answer for her strange behavior.

“The sun,” she explained, gesturing toward the window. “ Zuhur wilts under too much direct sunlight.”

“Ah,” the man said, bemused. “Thank you. The plant was my wife’s idea. We just took over the inn, and she thought it would be more welcoming. She loves flowers.”

“Smart woman,” Jamil said, entwining his hand with hers, giving her yet another smile.

Bill settled, the innkeeper showed them to their room.

Jamil set down their bags before thoroughly checking the space.

“Hungry?” he asked, rifling through his bag when he finished. “I’ll go get us something—”

“No,” she interjected. “Go to the apothecary and buy silpharoon leaves.”

“Yes, Princess,” he said with a wide grin.

The innkeeper called out a greeting as he darted back inside, a small pouch of silpharoon leaves clutched in hand. He took the stairs three at a time, long strides erasing the distance to their door.

It slammed open, forceful and eager.

A melodic laugh reached his ears.

Soraya was sprawled across the bed, all damp curls and bare, glowing skin.

His breath left his lungs.

He wasn’t sure it would ever return—not with the way she was looking at him, dark eyes shimmering with desire and mischief and something dangerously close to devotion.

For him. All of her— for him .

He didn’t register crossing the room, or the clothes falling from his body, or the way the mattress dipped beneath his weight. Only the press of her soft skin, the taste of her lips as he claimed them.

Mine .

They lay in a contented heap of limbs on the bed, sounds of hushed whispers and gentle kisses drifting through the quiet room. Jamil’s chest pressed against her bare back, his palm flat over her belly. Feather-light kisses danced across her neck and shoulder like raithbees darting in the breeze.

A satisfied hum escaped her, and she felt Jamil’s masculine chuckle before she heard it.

He pulled her tighter against him, arms secure around her.

They didn’t need words—Soraya could feel the immense love radiating off him.

It seeped into her body, soothing, warming, healing her heart until it was whole.