Page 81 of The Moon's Fury
Thanh rubbed the back of his neck. “I heard about the unrest in Alzahra. About your father, he’s—”
“How have the years treated you?” Burhani cut in.
She did not want to talk about her father or Alzahra. Her fingers twitched at her sides, desperate to reach for him.
“Um, good. I suppose,” he said, eyes darting to the floor. He tugged at his robe’s billowing sleeve, a nervous tic he hadn’t outgrown. “I’m engaged. To Sandas.”
He may as well have carved open her chest and tore out what remained of her broken, shattered heart.
Sandas. Of course, he’d have fallen into her willing arms.
Thanh cleared his throat, waiting for her to speak.
“Oh, that’s wonderful.” Her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears.
Thanh’s blue eyes shone with remorse. He opened his mouth, then thought better of it. Finally, he asked quietly, “What are you doing here, Hani?”
“I need to get into the restricted archives. Can you take me?”
He looked uncertain, glancing around the deserted hallway.
“I can’t do that, Hani. You’re not—you’re not a Scholar anymore.” He winced even as he spoke the words, as if they pained him more than her.
“Please. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important. It’s a matter of life and death.”
She didn’t tell him whose life and whose death.
He considered it for another minute.
“All right.”
He led her through the narrow passageways until they reached a hidden door, concealed behind a bookshelf. It opened to shadowed, familiar stairs, and together they descended.
She’d followed him down here countless times before, hands clasped tightly in the dark. Back then, her body had craved him more than her mind craved knowledge, and she’d paid no mind to the ancient scrolls, tucked away from the world.
They reached the bottom, and Thanh handed her the torch.
“You have ten minutes.”
She nodded. She’d done more in less.
Now, her father’s life depended on it.
36
Snikt.
She watched, mouth falling open, as the rabbit darted inside her snare and shot back out. A deep chuckle sounded behind her, and she turned, ready to direct her glare at the source. His muscular arms were crossed, the sun shining off his pitch-black hair. His gray eyes were crinkled at the corners, as they were more often lately, and the sight doused her outrage.
“Here,” he said, stepping forward and kneeling beside her faulty snare. “Make sure these ropes are tighter next time. You’re getting better.”
As they walked back to their—her—new cave, he easily caught two rabbits for dinner with just his hands and dagger. He said nothing, but she could feel the masculine satisfaction radiating off him.
They arrived at the clearing that marked their—her—home.
She had to stop doing that.
He set to skinning the rabbits, while she took down their dried clothing and folded them into neat piles. They had fallen into an easy rhythm these past few weeks of coexisting. She had slowlyregained the weight she lost on a steady diet of rabbit and other unlucky game animals.
