Page 73 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)

W eeks passed before they reached the heart of Baysaht.

Her wrist had ached with Najoom’s every pounding step, though Zarian had ways of distracting her from the pain.

They had veered clear of the capital city, attempting to avoid the Medjai and, though Zarian wouldn’t admit it, Nizam. Apparently, the king often rode through the city streets of late.

They reached the northern coast, spending most evenings sleeping beneath the stars, and some coveted nights at the odd inn along their path.

Tonight was one such night. They stopped at the North Sea Inn—Zarian knew the owner well.

In the stables, Zarian unsaddled and cared for Najoom himself, ignoring the middle-aged stablemaster’s insistence that he needn’t concern himself. When he was finished, Zarian handed a heavy pouch to the stablemaster, conversing with him quietly, sadness shadowing his eyes.

Layna watched, grief weighing down her heart. She, too, felt the loss keenly, though it had not yet come.

They needed to cross a sea, and Najoom could not come with them.

Layna had never seen so much water. Cerulean waves unfurled endlessly, meeting the horizon in a shimmer of blue. While Zarian bartered with the dockmaster, trying to secure them a vessel, she wandered along the shoreline, the wet sand cool and unfamiliar beneath her bare feet.

Her gaze remained fixed on the restless waves, where gentle whitecaps churned and frothy seafoam danced across the surface.

A gnawing unease settled in her chest. What lurked beneath those depths, unseen and waiting?

The North Sea lay calm now, but was it merely a mirage?

A fleeting illusion before the waters rose, surging skyward to drag them under?

She started at the sound of Zarian’s footsteps behind her.

“Ready?”

She wasn’t—but she nodded anyway.

Side by side, they reached the rickety dock. They walked past boats of all sizes until he stopped beside a weathered rowboat.

She stared at it.

He couldn’t be serious.

“ This is going to take us to Ashra? It looks ready to sink.”

Zarian chuckled. “Anything bigger will need two people to row.”

“I can—”

“Your wrist is barely healed. You’re not rowing.”

He began loading their meager belongings, dropping the bags into the center of the boat. They’d packed light, leaving most of their clothing, and Najoom, behind at the inn. Zarian had insisted the Isle of Ashra would have everything they needed.

More importantly, he had insisted it was safe.

The dockmaster stood nearby, waiting to push them off. She hesitated, her eyes again finding the cerulean sea.

“Trust me,” Zarian murmured in her ear. “I’ve made this trip several times. It’ll be a few hours of rowing, but before noon, we’ll be home.”

Home.

That was the word that made Layna, a child of the desert, swallow her fears and climb aboard a rickety rowboat.

She left land behind for the first time in her life.

In search of a home with the man she loved.

The North Sea was calm, and for that he was eternally grateful.

It had taken nearly forty minutes of rowing before Layna’s white-knuckled grip on her knees loosened.

Another twenty minutes after that before the tension eased from her shoulders.

He had watched her with mild amusement, quipping, “I promise not to drown us, love.” Her answering glare had coaxed a chuckle from his chest.

“I know that,” she had snapped. “I’m just not used to the swaying.”

Thirty minutes after that, he managed to make her laugh, and she’d finally moved, stretching out her legs.

Now, he had been rowing nonstop for nearly two hours. His arms ached. He looked at the sun, squinting against its bright light—still about an hour left. Layna had offered to row with her left hand exactly six times now, and judging from the concerned look on her face, she was about to offer again.

“Will you stop being so stubborn? I can row, Zarian.” A bead of sweat dripped from his forehead, tracing a path down his face, and Layna’s eyes tracked the movement, her throat bobbing as she swallowed.

“Answer is still the same as the last six times, my love.”

She left her perch and knelt between his spread knees, blotting the sweat from his brow with the hem of her tunic. Layna raised a skein of water to his lips, and despite himself, he gulped it down.

“Just for a few minutes. Watching your sweaty arms is making me tired.”

“Tired? Or aroused?” he teased, a lazy grin spreading across his face.

She didn’t answer, instead trailing her knuckles from his temple to his chin before caressing the line of his jaw. She settled herself between his knees and looked up at him with hooded eyes, pulling her lower lip between her teeth. Desire awakened in his core.

The little minx .

At least she was feeling more comfortable on the boat.

“Careful, love,” he said, dropping the timbre of his voice. “Keep that up, and I might actually drown us.”

She smirked, pressing a kiss to his chest before sliding back to her seat.

By the time they saw land, Zarian was drenched with sweat, his muscular arms shaking as he rowed them to the short dock. The sun had nearly reached its peak. He had kept his word—they’d arrived before noon. A group of men with curious, friendly eyes helped secure the boat with rope.

One of them helped her out, speaking a language she didn’t understand. It was nothing like the language spoken on the continent, the harsh sounds of the common tongue replaced with a gentle, lilting rhythm, almost like the waves she had come to know intimately in the last three hours.

She gave the man a confused smile, hoping he didn’t think her rude. Zarian’s large hand came to rest on her lower back, and he spoke to the man in the same flowing language, though the texture of his words was rougher.

The man waved them off. Zarian slung their bags over his shoulder and held out his arm, a large grin on his face, his eyes crinkling.

“Welcome to the Isle of Ashra.”