Jahima woke to the muted light of dawn filtering through the narrow shutters. For a moment, she thought she was still dreaming: her wrists no longer ached, the rope was gone, and her robe had been tied again with care.
Her gaze shifted to the window, where Santiago stood motionless, one hand braced against the sill, his silhouette stark against the pale sky. He had already dressed, his sword at his side, his eyes fixed on the street below.
"There are more guards," he muttered without turning. "Baza's crawling with them now."
Jahima sat up slowly, surprised not by his words but by the heavy quiet between them.
"You untied me," she said softly.
Santiago's jaw tightened. "You weren't going anywhere."
The words carried neither cruelty nor warmth, only blunt practicality that somehow stung more. She wanted to ask about the night before, but she held her tongue. A fragile, unspoken memory hung between them, thin as spun glass.
"We'll have to stay here," he went on, his tone flat. "A day. Maybe two. Long enough for the storm to move north. I need to send word to the front, and you…"
He finally glanced back at her, the corners of his lips twitching toward a smile. "You'll act as my veil. A wife softens suspicion."
Jahima's lips parted, a retort forming, but the words withered when she caught the playfulness in his eyes. She drew her robe tighter and said nothing, but her expression softened.
Santiago grinned and turned back to the window. She shook her head, curious what the day would bring.
-------
The streets of Baza bustled with merchants and travelers. Santiago and Jahima walked side by side, the illusion of husband and wife drawing nods and smiles from strangers. He carried a basket of dates and bread under one arm, while she clutched a skin of water to her chest, her eyes darting toward the palace scouts posted near the fountain.
"Smile," Santiago murmured through his teeth. "Newlyweds don't glare at the world."
Jahima forced a thin smile and cast him a look of false admiration. "You play the part well."
"Years of lies make for good theater," he replied, sliding a small piece of parchment to a shopkeeper with coins in exchange for honeyed wine.
Afterwards, they stopped to rest in the shade of a fig tree near the inn and fashioned themselves a picnic. Santiago lay in her lap as she fed him dates.
"You're taking it too far," she said through her teeth, stroking his face yet staring into his eyes.
"Oh, is this your idea of suffering?" His jest carried the same spark as last night. Jahima averted her gaze toward the Alhambra.
"Do you know how I came to live in the Palace?" she asked.
He arched a brow. "Because the Malika plucked you from the dust and set you in her cage."
"Not plucked," Jahima whispered, memory tugging her back. "Saved. My parents were going to sell me to a nobleman three times my age. The Malika's summons spared me."
Santiago studied her, doubt flickering in his gaze. "The Malika doesn't save. She takes when it is convenient for her alone."
Jahima faltered, recalling the sharpness in the Malika's eyes, the hidden barbs in her kindness. "Perhaps both can be true."
Santiago sat up, fingers breaking bread before his voice cut in. "Last night…" He trailed off, then surprised her with quiet honesty.
"I don't wish to speak of it either," she said, meeting his eyes.
"Then listen." His tone softened, though his gaze stayed hard. "I shouldn't have touched you. It was wine and weariness. But I meant no harm."
Her gaze dropped to the small silver cross hanging against his chest. "Do you even believe in God?"
His smile was wry, almost bitter, as he brushed the charm. "I wore this once for faith. Now it's just a memory of what I lost."
Before she could press him, a commotion stirred nearby as the town grew restless.
"We should go back to our room, dear," Santiago said, gathering their things. He offered his hand, and they returned to the inn with unease pressing close.
They had scarcely started up the stairs when the sound of armored boots echoed behind them. Voices barked questions in Castilian. Santiago quickly set their items at their feet before pinning Jahima to the wall in a hurried embrace.
An officer in polished armor strode inside, questioning the innkeeper in clipped tones. Santiago pulled her closer, kissing her wildly, their bodies pressed together in a lover's guise.
"Stay quiet," he whispered against her hair, then shoved his tongue into her mouth. She wanted to push him away, but danger anchored her still.
Her heart hammered as the officer's voice rose, then faded. At last, footsteps retreated, and the innkeeper's nervous laughter covered the moment. Only then did Santiago release her.
"Sometimes," he murmured, his forehead resting briefly against hers, "a lie is the only shield we have."
-------
Upstairs, the closeness lingered. In the narrow confines of their room, the memory of that forced embrace gnawed at them both. Neither spoke as Santiago bolted the door. The tension stretched taut, then snapped.
"You're impossible," she muttered, refusing to look at him.
"You fight me, even when your body betrays you."
She spun to face him, fire flashing in her eyes as she raised a hand to slap him.
He caught her wrists, not with the roughness of before but gently, testing her resistance. She didn't pull away. Instead, her breath hitched, betraying her.
"You're trembling," he murmured.
"Because you won't stop looking at me like that."
His laugh was low, bitter, almost pained. "You think I want to feel like this?"
She met his gaze unflinching. "Then stop."
But neither of them moved.
The decision broke like a wave: Santiago pulled her into him, his mouth hard on hers. Jahima gasped, half in anger, half in surrender, her fists striking his chest once before curling into his tunic. The kiss deepened, fierce and consuming, until her knees weakened beneath her.
He lifted her onto the bed, laying her back as though she might vanish if he was too rough. His scars caught the lamplight, pale reminders of battles survived. She touched one without thinking, tracing the jagged line across his chest. He shuddered.
"Don't," he whispered hoarsely.
"Why?"
"Because it makes me feel alive again."
His hands explored her body with reverence and hunger alike, calloused palms mapping the curves of her waist, the hollow of her hips, the swell of her breasts. For a fleeting moment, neither cared if it was lust, vengeance, or survival driving them.
"You hate me," she breathed against his lips.
"I hate everything but this."
Her robe fell open, the night air cool against her skin, his warmth pressing over it. She moaned despite herself, betraying too much. His mouth trailed her collarbone, her ribs, her navel, each kiss searing, claiming.
The ropes that once bound her wrists now felt like ghosts, their absence reminding her this surrender was not forced, it was hers to give… and she gave it willingly.
He took her breast into his mouth, gently licking and sucking as he parted her legs and touched her wetness with his fingers.
"You're so wet," he whispered. "I've longed to taste you."
Jahima moaned at the strange sensation, and he stared at her in amazement.
"Have you felt it before?" he asked breathlessly.
Jahima looked at him innocently, and he smiled, licking his lips in anticipation. He stood at the edge of the bed and knelt beside it, grasping her legs tightly as he pulled her into his mouth. She shouted in surprise, and he thrust his tongue deep inside her before sucking at her swelling bud.
"Oh..my..Santi…ah….ahh" she moaned.
Her mind scrambled in a sea of pleasure. He thrusted his fingers inside, and she shuddered as he licked and sucked until she climaxed in his hands. Her legs trembled in the wake of it. He stood to reveal his throbbing manhood.
She closed her legs instinctively, and he chuckled.
"We're not done," he whispered, pulling her onto her knees and pressing his length into her mouth.
"Now return the favor."
Jahima nodded, drawing on her concubine training, remembering the night in the Emir's room, but now empowered by Santiago's desire. She took him deeper, feeling his pulse on her tongue, and he growled, trying to contain his moan. Before she could finish him, he pulled her up and spun her around, pressing her belly into the bed to enter her from behind.
The pain struck like lightning, then smoldered into embers of pleasure. Jahima gasped and grasped at the bedsheets as he moved faster, gripping her waist to drive himself deeper.
"I can't… It's too deep."
"No…no…you will take it… this is the suffering you longed for."
Jahima's mind went blank as he hit the back of her insides and she climaxed again, but he refused to relent.
Their bodies came together again and again, each collision an eruption of ecstasy and abandonment. It was not tenderness but necessity, a blurring of choice and fate until exhaustion drove them both to quiet.
Santiago lay beside her, his hand resting over her heart as though to memorize its beat. He said nothing, and neither did she. But in that hush, something fragile had been planted between them. A seed too small to name, yet impossible to ignore.
-------
While Baza hid them in shadows and desire, the Alhambra burned with sleepless vigilance. Tariq sat hunched over parchment strewn with notes and fragments of alchemical texts. Candles burned low, wax pooling into rivers across his desk. His dreams of Rohan replayed in his mind, their warnings gnawing like wolves at the edges of his thoughts.
He pressed his palms into his eyes, fighting exhaustion, when a knock sounded. Aneesa entered quietly, her presence softening the chamber.
"I have not seen you all day," she said with concern.
"I've been searching," he muttered, gesturing at the manuscripts. "But the stone eludes me. If Rohan truly seeks it, I fear…" He trailed off, jaw tight.
She moved closer, brushing his arm. "You fear you cannot keep me safe?"
"Yes." His voice cracked. "Once others know…once they learn you may carry my heir, nothing will protect us."
Aneesa's eyes dropped, hesitation flickering. "The guards from that night…"
Tariq's head snapped up. "Gone?"
She nodded slowly.
His stomach turned. He knew too well what those words meant. "She killed them."
Tariq's anger flared, not at her but at the cost. His mother's hand left blood wherever it reached. Yet Aneesa reached up, her palm warm against his cheek, grounding him.
"Aneesa," he whispered, voice heavy with dread. "I'm sorry."
"I'm sure she did it to protect us," Aneesa replied softly.
His breath caught. For a moment, the weight of empire and prophecy slipped away, and all he saw was the woman before him. He cupped her face, kissed her with tenderness born of desperation.
"You are my anchor," he murmured. "If I lose you, there is nothing left."
She pressed her lips to his again, whispering, "Whatever comes, we face it together."
For the first time in days, Tariq allowed himself to rest in her embrace, though the dream of Rohan's return still burned at the edges of his mind.
-------
Elsewhere, the Malika and the Sultan walked the lantern-lit gallery in private counsel.
"An heir," the Sultan said, his voice equal parts excitement and worry. "At last."
"You sent away the guards?" he asked quietly, though he already knew the truth.
"I protected our bloodline," she replied. "No tongue remains to whisper what it saw."
"And Rohan?" the Sultan asked finally.
Her eyes narrowed. "The time of his return is upon us."
The Sultan's hand grabbed hers. "Then we must prepare."
"Yes," she said, her voice low but resolute. "For the storm he brings will test us all."