We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya 1)

“I’ve heard Demenhune never blush.” His voice was rough; his words brushed her lips.

She had forgotten that he could see, that he was now as much of the darkness as the darkness was of him.

A sudden snap seized their breathing as one, and Nasir drew her to her feet, sheltering them between the columns. Her legs quivered, and she reached for the cool stone.

He scanned their surroundings, but his exhale told her they were alone.

She wasn’t sure if what she felt was relief or panic.

* * *

Nasir was abuzz.

Every fiber of his being was at war with itself. She was in his arms, pressed against the stone. She was supposed to be at arm’s length, leading him to the Jawarat.

She was supposed to be beneath his blade.

But before she had recognized him, the look on her face had scared him. It had instantly cleared the mugginess that fogged his mind when he stepped upon this path. It was a look he knew very well. A look he didn’t like.

Murder.

The darkness was taking hold of her, and worse, she was allowin

g it to sink its teeth into her heart. Why do you care, boy? You’re the same. He clenched his teeth at the echo of Ghameq’s voice in his head. The Lion’s voice.

The sultan. He was the sultan, regardless of whether his father or the Lion stared back.

Her eyes fell to his mouth and he knew what to do. He knew how to make her forget the darkness. To bring her back to herself.

* * *

The dangerous charge in the air lifted the hairs on Zafira’s neck. She was aware of every subtle thing. Like his shallow breathing and the distance between them. Like the shift that brought him closer.

“Zafira.”

His voice was a caress. It lilted across the length of her name, tasting it. Teasing it. She wanted him to say it again. And again and again. She wanted him to do to her what he had done to her name.

Everything inside her stumbled to a crash at that thought. But he was watching. Waiting. Those dark eyes intent, her insides aflame. She said something but didn’t know what. Her voice was a distant thing, intoxicated with whatever crackled between them.

“What are you doing to me,” he said more than asked. His voice was a rasp. The sharp sounds and throaty underscores of the language from his lips made her shiver. “Am I too close?”

“No.” He was too far.

He skimmed his knuckles up the length of her arms, fabric snagging between them. Her heart stopped. Her breath shook, and his echoed.

She felt his strangled emotions in his every exhale against her skin, in the heat of his gaze. The hum of their bodies. He stepped impossibly closer and dipped his head. “And now?”

She shook her head, barely. Yet he paused at every motion that brought him nearer and nearer, waiting for her to pull away and end this madness.

His lips touched her ear.

She lost all sensation when he grazed the sensitive skin, slowly sliding his lips up. Down. Up. Blinding her. Killing her. This was nothing like the moment when he had touched her collarbone. She swallowed audibly and he chuckled beneath his breath.

She swept her trembling fingers down the hard ridges of his stomach, the heat of his skin making her heart race. An almost imperceptible groan escaped his mouth and she bit back her triumph. But he saw it, and she felt the answering curve of his smile at the shell of her ear.

Zafira shivered at the scrape of his jaw. He slipped one hand behind her head and tangled it in her hair. Tilted her head just so. The other fell to her waist, and he searched her gaze, eyes black beneath his hooded lids, dark lashes brushing the tops of his amber cheeks.

Their lips touched.