Content Warning: This chapter depicts non-consensual advances, which some readers may find distressing. Reader discretion is advised.
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By the second day of their return journey, the terrain had changed. The almond groves thinned, replaced by dust-blown stone and the burnt-out husks of watchtowers. A dull heat hung in the air like a veil, and the sky threatened rain without ever delivering.
They rode into the town of Baza by late afternoon, a place once governed under Andalusian law but now a strange no-man's-land. It was still Andalusian in architecture, but filled with foreign merchants, exiled Moors, and Castilian outlaws who answered to no crown.
Santiago pulled his hood low. "Don't look too long at anyone," he muttered to Jahima. "And don't let them look too long at you."
She rolled her eyes in annoyance but said nothing. As they passed through the narrow streets, she spotted two men at the edge of a fountain, both clean-shaven and alert, their armor too polished for this place.
"Scouts. From the Palace, or worse." Santiago whispered.
Jahima averted her eyes and stared down at his hand, now gripping firmly on the reins.
He veered sharply to the left. "We're stopping here for the night."
They entered an inn tucked between two worn walls, a place with peeling paint, warm bread on the air, and a front room filled with the laughter of men already halfway drunk.
"We'd like a room," Santiago said to the innkeeper, flashing a single silver coin. "Just for the night. A quiet one."
The woman behind the counter looked them over, smirked, and nodded. "Ah, newlyweds, I see. I'll be sure to bring a basin of warm water and anything else you need to make your stay more enjoyable."
Jahima stiffened beside him, but Santiago smiled, taking her hand into his and kissing it to confirm the innkeeper's assumption.
"Thank you," he replied before ushering her up the stairs with a firm hand on her back.
The room was modest. One bed, a basin of lukewarm water, and a narrow window that looked out over tiled rooftops. Santiago closed the shutters and lit a lantern before uncoiling a length of rope from his saddlebag.
Jahima narrowed her eyes. "What are you doing?"
"Tying you to the bed," he said casually, testing the strength of the headboard. "So you don't run or wander off and get recognized."
She stood, her chin high. "You must think I'm a fool?"
"I think," he said, moving toward her, "You're clever enough. And I've seen how well you lie when it suits you."
She didn't fight as he looped the rope around her wrists and fastened them loosely to the wooden headboard. There was room enough for her to lie on the bed to rest. Just not to leave.
"This is unnecessary," she muttered.
"Maybe," Santiago said, retrieving his coat. "But I need to be all ears at the table, and you'll draw too much attention. Stay quiet. And if anyone knocks, don't speak."
He turned to give her a firm stare as if to warn her not to do anything they might regret, and she nodded in obedience as he left.
—----
Night fell.
Jahima listened to the inn come alive with music and drunken laughter. She counted footsteps in the hallway, the rise and fall of her own heartbeat, the tally of lies she'd told since leaving the Alhambra. She was still wondering if she'd made the right decision or if she even had the courage to run, when the door creaked open.
Santiago stumbled inside, cheeks flushed, hair tousled, the smell of honeyed wine clinging to him like a second skin. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, smiling mischievously.
"They're headed north tomorrow. We're still safe."
She eyed him coldly. "You reek of sin."
"Sin is all that's left in places like this," he replied, crossing to the bed. "This town is no longer Andalusian. No Shariah. No court. Just card tables, whores, and drunk men with no gods."
"Is that freedom to you?"
He removed his shoes slowly, his gaze heavy, his steps unsteady. "It's not chains."
"You're drunk," she spat.
"Maybe." He stripped off his tunic.
The firelight revealed the body beneath: lean but powerful, shoulders cut sharp as stone, muscles honed by years of battle. Scars marked him like a map of old wars, and at his chest hung a small silver cross she had not noticed before.
The sight unsettled her. Was this man bound to some faith, or was it just another trophy of his contradictions?
She realized her gaze lingered too long, and she forced her eyes to meet his. His expression shifted, and she realized he had caught the weight of her stare. Lust now darkened his gaze.
"I just remembered," he murmured, his words rolling like the hiss of a serpent, "that I made you a promise."
Jahima flinched as he reached toward her, then stilled when his hand closed not on her, but the damp cloth from the basin. He wrung it out and wiped his face and hands before brushing it along her cheek, down the line of her throat. The touch was strangely tender.
"What do you want from me?" she asked.
"You told me," he murmured, "the Malika must believe you suffered."
"I…" She trembled, turning her face away. "There are other ways."
Santiago chuckled, "None quite as fun."
"You hate me," she whispered.
"No." His fingers caught her chin, forcing her eyes to his. "I hate where you came from."
"Then we're even," she quipped, followed by a silence that settled for a moment between them.
"You're difficult," he sighed, tossing the cloth aside before he stood to walk away.
Relief surged through her. Jahima lay back, closing her eyes, her wrists still bound to the headboard.
Before she could exhale, the straw mattress dipped under another weight. The frame groaned, pulling her body subtly toward him as if the bed itself obeyed Santiago's will.
He lay down without a word. His breath warmed the back of her neck, his body heat seeping through her robe. Her fingers tightened on the rope. Every instinct screamed at her to recoil, but the traitorous thrum in her chest held her still.
"Move away," she whispered, but her plea lacked conviction.
His hands slid up the side of her body unhurried yet deliberate. He tugged at her robe until the fabric parted, exposing her to the cool evening air. A shiver rippled over her skin, and her nipples hardened in its wake.
"I like a fight," he whispered before biting her ear gently.
Her heart raced as his calloused hands explored her body. Rough, large palms cupped her breast, then traced downward, circling her navel until her belly shuddered. His arousal pressed hard against her back, undeniable, insistent.
His desire something she had only experienced before in stolen glances.
Hatred flared hot in her chest. Hatred for him, for his audacity. But deeper still, hatred for herself. For the way her lips parted to moan, for the warmth that betrayed her, for the heat crawling across her skin.
And then suddenly….his body became heavy and the only noise in the room was her breath and the low rumble of a snore rising.
Had he fallen asleep?
Jahima opened her eyes. Looking down to see his arm wrapped around her waist, she could feel his lips resting against her shoulder.
Inside her anger, exhaustion, and fear mingled with an unexpected sense of relief.
She exhaled. She could neither flee nor fight for now.
Her thoughts turned restless: was this all theater, his own desire, or a dangerous new bond forming between them…and had she unknowingly agreed to it all?
Whatever it was, she reminded herself, desire was a powerful weapon in the hands of a woman.
—----
Meanwhile, at the Palace, moonlight spilled through the stained-glass panels of the Malika's private study. Beyond the balcony, lanterns flickered across the darkness. At her door, Tariq hesitated only a moment before knocking.
"Enter," her voice called.
He stepped in to find his mother seated before a spread of maps and court missives, the scent of jasmine thick in the air. Her hair cascaded down her back as she stayed in deep contemplation, not stopping to look up or greet him.
Tariq cleared his throat and then said, "I need your counsel."
She glanced up, immediately alert.
"My counsel?" she asked suspiciously. Tariq nodded and sat beside his mother. She took his hand and gave him her undivided attention.
"What is troubling you, my son?"
"I want to marry Aneesa. Officially. Before the next moon."
The Malika turned away in thought, "So soon?"
"Yes," he said, as she turned back to him. "I want to ask her father for her hand, formally. And make it public."
A long silence followed, as the Malika studied his expression.
"You know this may not be the wisest time?" she questioned.
Tariq only nodded silently.
"You've had dreams," she said.
His eyes widened slightly. How could she know? He hadn't spoken of them. Before he could answer, she cut the silence with her steady voice.
"You forget that Rohan is my brother. These gifts run in our veins."
Tariq's jaw tightened. "You knew?"
"I suspected. And if your dreams are what I think they are… he's reaching out to you."
"Then you believe he's truly returned?"
"He walks between worlds," she whispered, her eyes shadowed with fear. "And the time is nearing for him to return to ours.
"I cannot be concerned with his tricks." Tariq spat. "Do I have your blessing?"
The Malika laid a hand on his cheek. "You do. Marry her. You'll need her to get through what is to come next."
Tariq grabbed his mother's hand and kissed it. "Thank you, mother."
—----
The courtyard buzzed with the sound of cicadas and the rustle of trees. Aneesa stood silently on the garden path, taking in the evening air, the moonlight dappling her skin as she stared up at the sky.
A sudden wave of nausea twisted through her belly, bile rising in her throat. She clutched her stomach and fell to her knees on the cool stone path, the cicadas' drone muffling into a dull roar in her ears.
Nearby guards rushed to her. "Fetch the Emir!" one cried.
Moments later, Tariq burst into her chambers, where servants were already helping Aneesa into bed. Her hair was wet from a timely bath. Her face was pale, but she reached for him.
"I don't know what happened," she uttered.
He sat beside her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I was told you fell ill in the courtyard... It's possible... you're with child."
Aneesa's eyes widened. "A baby?" she said, almost in disbelief, her gaze somewhere in the future.
"We'll know soon," he said, his voice pleasant but his mind racing with Rohan's nightmare, the warning echoing in the back of his mind. He wanted to tell her of the dream, but dared not. Some truths, he feared, were too dangerous to speak aloud.
He would tell her, but not yet.