Page 81 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)

T his might have been her best birthday yet. They spent a languid morning in bed, and when they finally had their fill of each other, Zarian prepared a delicious breakfast of eggs, salted plantains, and taro pancakes served with honey.

A walk along the beach came next, and Zarian insisted on adding to her seashell collection. He had asked if she wanted to invite Marwon and Kylah for dinner, but she declined—she’d much rather bask in his presence alone.

Now, it was early afternoon, and they were in their front yard.

The clouds had graced her today, blotting the sun, and a cool, fresh breeze blew through her hair.

She sat with her back against a palm tree, reading a new book Zarian had purchased for her in town, a fantastical story about creatures that were part human and part fish.

Zarian lay on the ground beside her, his head in her lap. She had been reading to him, but he dozed off at some point. It was rare for him to nap during the day—he must have risen very early, even for him, to catch that moonsdamned fish.

Her fingers curled in his soft, inky black hair. She loved watching him sleep, though she didn’t get to do it nearly enough. How this man functioned on such little rest, she’d never understand.

She set the book aside and admired his face—his brow was smooth, free from all worries. She gently traced his sharp cheekbone, his stubbled jawline, the strong column of his throat.

How was it possible to love another being this much?

It was as if her heart had decided it no longer catered to her whims—instead, it sought only Zarian’s happiness, his smiles and contentment.

He loved life on the island, and for him, she’d grown accustomed to it. It amazed her how much he loved the water, despite the traumatic way he’d learned to swim.

The first time Zarian had dove beneath the open, roiling waves, Layna had no peace.

She paced and wrung her hands, biting her nails until they’d bled.

Eight minutes had felt like eight years, and when he’d finally surfaced, she’d inhaled so deeply, it felt like she had been the one holding her breath.

Then, a few weeks ago, Zarian had walked into the washroom and found her close to tears. Her wavy hair was a matted nest of tangled knots, rife with wayward sand and brittle from seawater.

Wordlessly, he had washed her hair, scrubbing out every grain of sand with gentle fingers, and painstakingly untangled the knots.

The next day, he’d gone into town and returned with an earthy oil the island women used to protect their hair from saltwater.

He oiled and braided her hair every week, with more care than even Tinga had shown.

Zarian loved this little island—his real home—but was ready to leave it and follow her wherever she wished. Not even her father had loved her mother so deeply. If Layna tried to list all the ways he cared for her, protected her, loved her, she would run out of life before reasons.

She gazed at his peaceful, sleeping face in her lap, his long eyelashes casting shadows against his cheeks. Layna combed her fingers through his hair, raking them gently against his scalp.

“Zarian,” she murmured.

No response.

“Zaariaaan,” she tried again, drawing out his name. His brow furrowed, and he grumbled in displeasure, turning to nuzzle his face into her stomach before settling back again. Her heart thrummed with so much affection, she thought it might escape her chest.

“What are marriage customs like in the Oasis?”

His eyes snapped open.

Her mouth curled into a smile.

He was wide awake now.

“What?” he rasped.

“Marriage customs,” she repeated. “What are weddings like in the Oasis?”

He sat up and crossed his legs, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Simple, really. Bride and groom exchange rings and repeat the customary vows before two witnesses.” He arched a brow in question.

“Let’s get married,” she said.

She counted heartbeats as he studied her face—five long thuds in her chest—before he spoke.

“Are you sure? We can wait for Soraya and—”

“I’m sure,” she interjected. “I don’t want to wait another day.

Soraya will understand.” He clasped her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles, deep in thought.

“Let’s get married tonight, Zarian. We can get rings later.

And the moon can be our witness. I just want it to be us. Is that all right?”

“Do you want to include any Alzahran customs?”

She shook her head. “I only want yours.”

Zarian breathed a laugh, happy and disbelieving. “All right. We can alter the customary vows, then. You might not like them.”

She frowned. “No, I’ll honor the vows as they are. We’re already changing so much—no proper witnesses or rings.”

He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, then shot to his feet. “I have a wedding to plan. Don’t come up onto the terrace.”

And then he bounded off.