Page 75 of The Moon's Daughter

Why had he stopped?

She traced her lips, remembering the pressure of his mouth against hers. Zarian’s devotion was clear. Yet, when it came to crossing this final boundary, he still held himself back.

Layna wasn’t naïve. She knew he was experienced—such a man as Zarian, with his handsome features and charm, and more importantly, the anonymity of his missions, would have had no lack of companionship. She tried not to dwell on those who might have come before her, always succumbing to the slithering tendrils of jealousy that twined around her sanity, pulling her down into their green, suffocating depths.

But why not me?The question haunted her amidst the residual heat of their passion.

As her body began to calm and the haze of lust cleared from her mind, her thoughts drifted to the day’s events. Nizam’s offer of 250,000 soldiers—an entire army lent without treaty or alliance—was staggering.

It was an outrageous move, one that would not have been made lightly. Baysaht’s council must have voiced reservations about wagering so many of their soldiers.

Yet Nizam had moved forward with it. Why?

Her personal history with him added to her confusion. What did Nizam’s current gesture signify? And why now? Layna’s mind raced with possibilities, none of which made sense.

An irrational resentment stirred within her—a bitter feeling, not for the aid, but for the vulnerability it underscored. Alzahra’s reliance on Baysaht’s soldiers highlighted their weakness against Zephyria and its newfound allies.

With these thoughts, Layna eventually drifted into a fitful sleep. The night’s events wove through her dreams, a flurry of desire, duty, and the deep, unfathomable game of kings and kingdoms.

Returning to his chambers, Zarian felt Layna’s kisses still clinging to him. Entering the washroom, he turned on the cold water and stepped into the shower, hoping to clear the fog of lust clouding his mind.

The cold cascade was a harsh wake-up call, an icy reminder of the restraint he was supposed to uphold, both for his sake and Layna’s. As the water sluiced over him, he chastised himself for his lack of control. He longed to give her everything she desired, but the fear of losing her constantly lurked in his mind, ever-present and mocking, casting a shadow over their moments together.

Dressed and somewhat centered, Zarian headed to the dungeon. Varin, battered but defiant, sat on the floor of his cell.

Jaffar reported, “He’s a stubborn one, Your Majesty. Hasn’t said a word yet, but the night is still young.”

Zarian approached Varin, his steps echoing in the dank cell. The flickering torches cast long shadows across Varin’s face, accentuating the bruises and the defiance that still lingered in his eyes.

“You’ve had a long night,” Zarian began, crossing his arms over his chest. “It can end here if you cooperate.”

Varin, slumped against the cold stone wall, lifted his head slightly, meeting Zarian’s gaze. He remained silent. Despite his disheveled appearance, there was a flicker of resolve in his eyes, a stubbornness that had yet to be broken.

Zarian crouched down, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You understand the gravity of your situation. This isn’t just about treason. It’s about survival. Yours and Alzahra’s. Speak now, and you might yet save yourself from a fate worse than this dungeon.”

The silence that followed was thick. Varin’s gaze faltered, darting away for a moment, but still he refused to speak, his lips pressed together tightly.

Zarian sighed and nodded to the head guard. “Keep me informed, Jaffar,” he said as he straightened. Zarian exited the cell, the heavy door closing behind him with a dull thud.

As the prince retraced his steps back to his chambers, his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. Varin’s silence posed an obstacle, but it was one he was determined to overcome. The stakes were too high, the risks too great to allow one man to stand in their way.

They would break him.

Stepping into his quarters, Zarian froze, eyes widening in surprise.

Jamil was lounging casually on his bed, one arm propped behind his head as he ate a mirsham fruit.

“You’re not the only one adept at scaling balconies,” his fellow Medjai quipped sarcastically.

Zarian chose silence as his response, his expression guarded as he slowly unstrapped his sword and tossed it onto the sofa.

Jamil took a deep breath, the stiffness easing out of him slightly as he rose from the bed. “I want to apologize. It’s been difficult for me to separate Zarian, the Medjai’s crown prince, from Zarian, the man. My friend. I will do better. Let’s move past this.”

Unbridled relief washed over Zarian at his friend’s words. “It took you long enough,” he said, a genuine smile lighting up his face.

Jamil crossed the room and placed a hand on his shoulder. Without a word, Zarian pulled him into a tight embrace.

As they stepped back, Zarian punched Jamil’s arm. “That’s for putting your boots on my bed.” Jamil chuckled, rubbing his arm lightly with a grin.