We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya #1)(84)

“Arrogance will get you nowhere,” she said.

Her ring twinkled in the sunlight, blinding him even with his gaze pointedly down. Did you love him, fair gazelle?

He had been so sure of so much, but now he wasn’t certain of anything anymore. He paused and met her eyes. If a poet were to describe them, he would say to look into her eyes was to see the sea’s first glimpse of the sun, drinking its reflection with endless ripples. Or something like that. Nasir was no poet. And though she held his gaze unflinchingly, some part of her had retreated. Did his scars repulse her? Did he repulse her?

“I’m here, aren’t I?” he said.

“This would be my definition of nowhere.”

Her slow drawl was accompanied by a look of amusement. A breeze wound through the grass and she shivered, reaching for her hood before her eyes tightened in the realization that she wasn’t wearing her cloak. Her fingers brushed her ring, and her lips parted ever so slightly. He watched, transfixed, wondering how those small, mindless motions always drew his attention.

Something had shifted between them last night. Want pulsed at the pads of his fingers.

He swallowed. “This doesn’t look like nowhere to me.”

This was as peaceful as their journey would be. The waters undulated a brilliant cobalt beneath the teasing wind. Rare, clear skies cupped the sun. It was softer, fighting the growing darkness, barely lifting the small hairs on the back of his neck, but it was more than he had seen in a while. And if he were feline like Benyamin, he would be curled beneath it, relishing in its warmth. But he was no stray, nor was he one to sit idly and relish anything in life.

It wasn’t peaceful, he decided. It was a moment between moments. The calm before a storm.

“Looks can be deceiving,” she replied.

Beneath the beat of the sun, all he saw was the starkness of her skin and the sharp cut of her lips. But last night, beneath the glow of the moon, that skin had coaxed and those lips had beckoned.

They still do. Nasir twisted his mouth and resumed his sharpening. The hiss of a blade knifed the sway of the tall grass, and a hand extended toward him bearing a jambiya, the point facing away. He took the dagger and studied the simple leather hilt, worn from age and the exchange of palms. Her father’s or mother’s, he assumed, and likely the only blade that felt comfortable in her hand.

Murderer, she had said that first day. It was no small deed, handing over a trusted weapon to an enemy.

He set his sword down and started grinding her blade. “It’s Safaitic.”

“What is?” she asked, watching him.

“The ink. My arm. It’s Safaitic. I don’t expect you to know how to read it.” Kharra. He should have phrased the words as a question.

She only pressed her lips together and neither denied nor agreed. “Then there’s no harm in showing me, is there?”

“Define ‘harm,’ Huntress.” He ran his fingers along the edge of her blade, and it snagged on the leather of his glove—sharp, but it could be sharper.

She glanced to the others. Altair made Kifah laugh as she tossed her lightning blades at a tree. Benyamin had climbed up the same tree and was lazily flipping through his book.

“Physical pain,” she said.

He gave a dry laugh, her dagger wheezing under his ministrations. “Then you’ve never experienced real pain before.”

“Emotions are an inconvenience.” But her tone suggested she didn’t believe the words. She was saying them for his benefit, to study his reaction with those sharp eyes.

“Until they broach into the level of pain,” he said softly. He stood and passed her jambiya back. His fingers brushed hers and despite the barrier of his glove, he drew in a sharp breath, every part of him alert.

She slid the dagger back into its sheath. How could a hunter be so delicate? Not even a speck of dirt marred the skin beneath her nails. She started to leave but stopped, head half turned as if to say, This is your last chance.

He felt he had reached some sort of … understanding with her. A bond, fragile and bleak. Perhaps it was pity, for what she had seen the night before. A protest stirred in his chest, begging him to shatter, shatter, shatter.

Bonds held no place in his life.

He hesitated for a beat of his heart before unstrapping his gauntlet and lifting his sleeve. He averted his eyes from the twisted calligraphy as she drew close a little too quickly. It was one thing to know what had been written on his arm; it was another to see it, to be reminded of the day he had it pierced into his skin. To be reminded of his mother.

The Huntress’s breath caressed his arm as she leaned in, warm despite her iciness. Her shoulder brushed his. Her ring tapped his elbow in a steadily falling beat. Sensations clashed and he wanted—no. She reached out, and he saw the path her fingers were about to take, the words she wanted to trace.

“What happened to no touching?” he asked.

She pulled away with a sharp inhale.

He tugged his sleeve down and strapped the leather back in place. He cursed the rasp in his voice, the falter. She had seen enough. She had seen too much.



* * *



Zafira watched him leave, his shoulders stiff, the sun casting his dark hair in a gleam of light.

He couldn’t have known that she knew Safaitic. Baba had tried to teach her, and it was rusty at best, but she was able to read the words on his arm. The swirling black, shaped like a teardrop on his golden skin.