Page 82 of The Moon's Fury
“Will you light the fire for me?” he called, his hands bloody. She padded toward him. Raising her hands, she directed a beam of hot light at the firepit, and the kindling quickly caught flame. “Thank you, Shamzaadi,” he said with an easy smile. She fixed a glare on him, though it was harder and harder to summon heat. He’d taken to calling her Shamzaadi, sun princess, and the term had grown on her.
“You slept through meditation this morning,” he commented, skewering the meat on a thin branch. Her eyes tracked the movement of his arms, biceps flexing, forearms corded with thick veins.
“Are you feeling all right?”
He’d encouraged her to meditate with him every morning, and she enjoyed the peace it brought to her loud mind. It had also been instrumental in harnessing the power inside her—he’d helped with that as well.
“Yes,” she replied quickly, cheeks warm. She hadn’t slept well the night before.
When the meat was cooked through, she sat down beside him. Her knee brushed against his, and she didn’t scoot back as she might have done weeks ago. He tore the meat into pieces, always giving her the most tender parts, and they ate in companionable silence.
“Will you … leave soon?” she asked, her heart thrumming in her chest.Quiet, she told it.
“So eager to be rid of me, Shamzaadi.”
It wasn’t a question. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“I—no. It’s just … don’t you want to move on with your life? You’re finally free of them. You could go wherever you pleased.”
He was silent, chewing thoughtfully for longer than seemed necessary. He swallowed, and her disobedient eyes droppedto his throat. Then they dipped lower, tracing his thick collarbones, following the smattering of fine chest hair down the vee of his tunic and—
“I could,” he said, and her eyes snapped back to his, a furious warmth flushing her cheeks.
“What?” she asked, brows furrowed.
“What you said. I could go wherever I pleased.”
He didn’t say anything else.
That night, when she lay down in her bedroll, sleep eluded her again. She tossed and turned, her body painfully aware of the large, kind man sleeping just a few feet away.
The journey to Shahbaad was long, but blessedly uneventful. Layna was grateful for the warmer clothing—the climate was much cooler on this side of the continent.
As the days went on, they fell into a routine. At first light, Zarian would wake her from whichever sheltered area they’d slept the night before. They’d eat breakfast, then she’d drink hersilpharoontea. Zarian had the foresight to purchase a small kettle and metal stand before they left Sendouk. He’d stake the rods over the firepit, and Layna would use her light to start the fire.
One morning, instead of lighting the fire, she tried channeling her light into one hand and heating the kettle directly. It had worked so well that the hot metal burned her skin. It seemed that, while her light didn’t harm her, other objects it heated were fair game.
After breakfast, they’d mount Najoom and ride for hours. Often, Layna used this time to summon her light, calling it to the surface at different points of her body. She always rode in front now—it was easier for her to rest against Zarian when practicing left her fatigued.
And it made it easier for Zarian’s wandering hands to have their fill.
When they stopped for Najoom to rest, Zarian would train her with the dagger he’d given her in Sendouk. On other days, she’d practice forms with one of his swords—she hadn’t brought hers with her the night they left Alzahra. Even his smaller sword was too heavy for her, and after the first few days, her arms ached under its weight.
They avoided the main roads that travelers frequented, remaining close to the trees where possible. They rarely encountered anyone. Once, they had come across a small hunting party of four men. Zarian had tensed behind her, but greeted them courteously as they rode past. The men returned his greeting, and Layna felt curious eyes on her, though they said nothing further.
Zarian didn’t stop that night to sleep.
Besides that incident, they had kept a slower pace, allowing time for Jamil to catch up with Soraya and Hadiyah.
But a niggling thought kept prodding her mind.
“What if they didn’t go to Sendouk?” she’d asked Zarian. “What if they went somewhere else?”
“Where?”
“Shahbaad. My mother can be very persuasive. She may have decided it was safer for her and Soraya to return to my grandfather.”
Zarian mulled her words. “She is indeed persuasive,” he agreed, a shadow passing over his face. “But going to Shahbaad Palace would have been extremely stupid. It must be crawlingwith Medjai—it’s not a far stretch to assume you’d seek shelter with a relative. Jamil would have been a fool to take them there.” He rubbed a hand over his chin, and suddenly he looked less certain. “A fool in love,” he murmured.
