Page 137 of The Moon's Fury
Vaguely, he was aware of Almeer shouting Soraya’s name, his brother and father restraining him. The sound grated on his nerves, and briefly, Jamil wanted to sever his vocal cords so he could never utter her name again.
He killed the second and third men quickly, but one guard managed to slash his side from behind. It wasn’t deep, butfuck, did it sting.
“Drop it!” a guard shouted. He spun—Soraya stood over her fallen opponent—but before relief could settle, another guard had her in his grip, blade kissing her throat.
Jamil froze, lips peeled back in a snarl, leveling his sword at the guard.
“Drop your sword. Now!” he shouted. He pressed the blade harder into Soraya’s neck, and a thin stream of blood dripped down her throat.
“Don’t hurt her!” Almeer cried, his voice raw as tears streamed down his face. His brother wrenched his arms behind him. “Stop!”
His father backhanded him.
Eyeing the guard, Jamil raised his hands in surrender. His sword fell to the ground with a defeated thud, and he quickly followed as another guard knocked him to the leaf-covered floor.
He looked at the sword poised to deliver his death. His gaze snapped to Soraya—her face pale, fear etched into every line. His mind raced, grasping for a way out, but the Medjai had never trained him for this—for the moment his beloved was the one in danger.
No entanglements of the heart.
There was so much left unsaid.
He tried to pour it all into his gaze.
You gave me purpose.
I’m so sorry.
I lo—
An arrow flew out from the dense trees and buried into his would-be executioner’s neck. The man’s heavy body dropped, knocking the air from his lungs with awhoosh. Jamil rolled him off. Arrows whistled through the air, one after the other, and the remaining men dropped like raithbees.
Jamil charged at the last guard—the one clutching Soraya like a human shield, a coward hiding from death.
But before he could reach them, an arrow struck first, burying itself deep in the man’s neck, mere inches above Soraya’s head. The guard crumpled to the ground.
“Are you all right?” Jamil panted, finally reaching her. He tilted her chin—the wound on her neck was superficial—it would scab within the hour. Still, fury, raw and untamed, raged through him. The man’s death had been too swift.
Jamil would have made him suffer.
He tucked Soraya behind him, head swiveling in every direction, searching for the sharpshooter.
A rustling sounded out between the trees, and from within them emerged Kharteen, a broad grin stretched across his familiar face.
Jamil raised his sword in warning.
Was he friend or foe?
The gash on his side stretched open, weeping blood, and he gritted his teeth against the pain.
Kharteen, his brother from another life, raised his hands.
“Zarian sent me.”
Jamil exhaled, eyes closing in silent thanks.
It appeared he was his brother, still.
“I’ve never been so relieved to see your ugly face,” Jamil said.
