Page 177 of The Moon's Fury
“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.
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Zarianspenttherestof the day thundering in and out of the villa, carrying various things upstairs that he shielded from her view. He finished in time to make her birthday dinner—fire-roastedsamakla—which was every bit as delicious as he had promised. It tasted like melted butter and rich smoke and paradise.
After dinner, she changed into a gauzy, white sundress, long dark waves cascading around her shoulders. Zarian was waiting for her when she emerged from the washroom. He wore his baldric—no tunic underneath—and dark trousers. His sword was strapped across his back.
A wedding outfit fit for a warrior.
Her smile was shy as she walked toward him. His eyes shone with unadulterated adoration.
“Captivating,” he murmured. In his hands was a crown, fashioned from bright flowers he’d picked himself. With reverent hands, he set it atop her head.
There were no words she knew to express the weight of her heart.
But he understood anyway.
He took her hand and led her to the roof. At the top, he covered her eyes and guided her forward, each step quiet with promise.
“Ready?” His voice was a deep whisper in her ear.
He removed his hands.
