Page 4 of The Moon's Fury
Why was he torturing himself this way again?
He could easily give into her desires and claim her. And if she were forced to marry some sniveling, unworthy royal from a wealthy kingdom … then it would be easy enough to kill her would-be husband, throw her over his shoulder, and disappear into the sunset.
No. No. Fuck.
He couldn’t do that. She might never forgive him.
Instead, he was simpering in front of a mirror.
The hands on the ornate clock mocked him.
It was time.
Hot, slithering jealousy coiled in his stomach, and his fingers flexed for his sword. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and forcing his body to relax. He was here to protect Layna. Another breath, his chest expanding wide. Layna loved him. Another breath.
He was here to protect Layna, and she lovedhim.
And that was all that mattered.
He strode to Layna’s room. He dipped his chin toward the guards stationed outside, his most trusted men from the new recruits, and knocked on the heavy door.
“Layna? It’s me.”
Light footsteps approached, the sound muffled. Then the door swung open, and his heart stuttered in his chest.
Lovesick fool, indeed.
She was breathtaking. A deep, burgundy gown draped over her curves, the only color she was permitted to wear at formal events as Alzahra’s queen. Her hair was loose, long dark waves cascading around her shoulders, her gold-and-ruby crown perched atop her head. His gaze trailed over her, and he couldn’t control the slow, lazy grin that spread across his face.
“You are a vision,” he said. “Even the midday sun couldn’t match your radiance.”
Her lips quirked, even as she glanced nervously around them.
“The servants,” she murmured. “What are you doing?”
“Repenting.”
He took a step closer, heedless of prying eyes. Let the servants gossip and tell the entire continent that Queen Layna’s heart was spoken for. Their gazes locked and held. It would be so easy to kiss her now, walk her backward into the room and—
“Try to control yourselves tonight,” interrupted Lord Ebrahim from behind them. He frowned disapprovingly, his eyes lingering on Zarian, but his mouth twitched at the corners.
Layna hid a smile, taking a step back.
“Shall we?” Zarian asked, resisting the urge to offer Layna his arm. She took a deep breath and nodded. Flanked by their guards, a servant led them to the main dining hall.
Zarian made mental notes of the palace layout, filing away secluded corridors and hidden entry points.
He hoped he wouldn’t need any of it.
They arrived at the dining hall and waited for the caller to announce them.
“Queen Layna of Alzahra! Prince Zarian of the Nahrysba Oasis!”
Even through the heavy door, he heard the hall settle into a quiet hush. The door swung open. Layna walked ahead of him, the very picture of regal poise, back straight and head held high.
His hand clutched his sword as he scanned the tables, each one reserved for a monarch and their entourage. From Minhypas, there sat King Petragh and Prince Amir. King Luqmad and Ambassador Zara from Bilkaan were seated at an adjacent table with their advisers.
Zarian clenched his fists when he spotted the sleazy Prince Malik from Tarakshan, seated beside his father, King Malik the First. Zarian hadn’t forgotten about Malik’s wandering hands during his dance with Layna at Alzahra’s royal ball. They locked gazes, and Malik quickly glanced down, undoubtedly seeing violence in Zarian’s eyes.
