Page 61 of The Moon's Fury
Reaching inside his tunic, he brought out a narrow, black box and placed it within her hands.
He looked at her expectantly, and she slowly opened the lid.
She gasped.
Inside was the most exquisite dagger she’d ever seen. The hilt was a brassy, muted gold, with an embossed filigree design. The blade was thin and straight, glinting in the light. With reverent hands, she grasped it, testing its weight.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
Zarian curled her fingers around the hilt, then, with both hands joined, guided the blade to his finger. Realizing his intention, she tried to pull back but couldn’t match his strength. He pierced the tip of his index finger. A drop of blood welled, and she glared at him.
“The first blood you take is mine,” he murmured. He dabbed her lips, then kissed the blood from her mouth. His hazel eyes held so much intensity, she wondered if there was significance behind the gesture. Summoning her light, she quickly healed the small puncture.
“Have you hadjalebibefore?” he asked suddenly. She shook her head as he reached for the grease-blotted bag, pulling out a bright orange, swirledsomething. The whorls were sticky, coated in a sugary syrup.
A burst of fresh, sugary flavor filled her mouth as she bit into it—warm, crisp, and impossibly sweet. She handed one to Zarian, who devoured it in two large bites. Then she reached for another, licking the syrup slowly from each fingertip.
The heat of his gaze warmed her skin. He pulled her close, melding his mouth to hers.
Zarian’s kiss, searching and intimate, his lips sticky sweet, enveloped her senses. Breaking away, she playfully licked the corner of his mouth, hands tightly gripping his tunic, a teasingsmile on her lips. His eyes darkened, and the swirling desire within them sent a shiver through her.
Jalebiforgotten, he cradled her to his chest and carried her to bed.
28
Monthsandmonthspassed—orso she thought. She didn’t always eat, and so, her moon’s blood didn’t always greet her.
Dried leaves crunched underfoot as she headed back to her cave, freshly scrubbed clothes thrown over her shoulder—they’d dry quickly in the sunlight.
Something in her heart, intuition or some other primal sense, slowed her footsteps.
The forest was quiet. Far too quiet.
No chirping birds or trilling insects or scampering paws.
She stopped short, narrowed gaze scanning the dense trees.
Nothing.
She waited three heartbeats, then three more, before finally taking a step—
An arrow whistled through the air and buried into her shoulder. A surprised cry, a stab of pain. Blood seeped from her wound into her freshly washed clothing. Another arrow followed, this one plunging into her soft belly.
A gurgled gasp escaped her.
She fell to her knees.
Three large men, cloaked in leather and shadow, emerged through the thick underbrush. Nocked arrows leveled their judgment, sharp tips glinting in the dappled sunlight.
With a loud cry, she yanked the arrows from her body, throwing them to the ground as blood wept from her wounds.
She met their wary gazes without fear, only resignation. Two of the men aimed again, their gazes devoid of emotion. The third man, however, lowered his bow.
Eyes closed, head tipped back, she knelt, ready to face her reckoning.
But the light inside her disagreed.
Outraged, untamed tendrils coiled within her, and burning rage began to fester, poisoning her veins. With dawning horror, she realized it was happening again.
