Page 102 of The Moon's Fury
He looked anywhere but her. She tilted her chin, worry and anger and embarrassment warring for dominance.
“Look, it didn’t mean anything.” A muscle feathered in his cheek. “We were avoiding those men. Take off your tunic. I’m not some feral cat. I can control myself.”
“Well, I can’t!” he snapped. His green eyes blazed with anger, matching her own. An angry Jamil was a rare sight, and the tangled web of her feelings grew ever more knotted. He pursed his lips before continuing, “My shoulder is fine. I can tend to it myself. It may have meantnothing, but best not to tempt morenothings.”
He grabbed his pack and disappeared inside the washroom.
Jamil emerged twenty minutes later in fresh clothes, dark curls damp. He was favoring his right shoulder, but Soraya didn’t comment on it.
She had no right to.
Instead, she headed to the washroom. Scalding water sprayed down as she aggressively scrubbed every inch of her skin, hoping she might wipe away the stench of betrayal along with the grime.
But which betrayal?
Almeer she had betrayed once physically, but her heart had crossed that line many times now.
And when she remembered Jamil’s face—his refusal to show her his injury—somehow, it felt like she had betrayed him, too.
When she emerged from the shower, Jamil had already set out dinner—arayes, lamb-stuffed pitas, and stacks of sweet, honeyedmeshaltet. It seemed he had raided the street food vendors while she washed up.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, glancing at him. “I’m glad you’re all right.”
He gave a curt nod. After a moment, he said, “A Medjai killed by a fallen brick? Zarian would’ve laughed himself hoarse.” His smile was tentative, a peace offering, and she matched it with her own.
“Who were those men earlier?” she asked, dipping the corner of herarayesinto white, tangy sauce.
Jamil measured his words. “The Gundaari.” She raised a brow, and he elaborated. “A criminal organization. Robbery, trafficking, smuggling. Pick any crime, and they have their hands in it. The Medjai have … worked with them. I don’t know the full extent.”
She snorted. “I’m not surprised. The Medjai prey on orphans and turn them into mon—” She cut off abruptly with a gasp, cheeks burning, and an awkward silence crept in between them.
“It’s all right,” he said quietly, staring at his plate. “I know what I am.”
“That’s not what I—”
“The man from earlier,” he cut in, “he’s the leader of the Senta branch. I was on a mission here, and it didn’t go as planned.”
“Was Zarian with you?”
“No. This was after his brother’s banishment. He was searching for him. I was with a different group.”
“What happened?” she asked softly.
“I had completed the … mission here,” he said, and Soraya heard the words he didn’t say.Assassination. “There were men herding a group of boys into a caravan. Nothing good was awaiting them. I killed the men and freed them, but more Gundaari had arrived by then. Including their leader. His men held me down while he carved into my face. He would’ve done more, but my partners had come searching for me. The three of us posed better odds, and the Gundaari fled. We let them go and brought the children to safety.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, because what else could she say?
He shrugged. “It’s all right. I hate my scar. It’s a constant reminder of that night.”
They finished their meal in silence.
“I like it,” she said suddenly. He arched a brow in question. “Your scar. It makes you look more handsome. Rugged. Interesting.” His lips tipped up. “And it’s a reminder that you’re a good man. The Medjai tried to shape you into a cold, ruthless assassin, but they couldn’t corrupt your good heart.”
He said nothing, but the sadness in his green eyes receded, replaced with something so warm, so intense, she tore her gaze away. She chewed the inside of her cheek before asking, “Is there a deck of cards lying around? Let’s playronda.”
They played three rounds, and Soraya won all of them. She whooped, setting down fourmaalikswith a flourish.
“You’re very good,” Jamil said, smiling as he gathered the cards.
