Chapter 2
Shrugging him off, Aicha turned to face the elder, irritation lacing her spine as she gripped the straps of her satchel with both hands. The commander was flanked by two officers, his red and white uniform slightly discoloured by sand and sweat.
Blond hair, which had probably been combed back to perfection, was now curled at the tips.
Strands rested on his forehead, sweat glistening.
His nose and cheekbones were tinged pink from the sun, eyes bloodshot as he glared at her.
Aicha supposed that, in the past, he was attractive.
She could see it even now; the sharpness of his jaw, and his plush lips.
If he had ever smiled, it might have elicited a tumble of excitement in a person’s chest. Only his sneer, and perhaps a self-satisfied smirk, was all she had ever seen.
Commander Duarte Almeida was a man far too familiar with Fouad’s family, an obsession with catching them breaking the law too intense for it to be within the realms of normality.
Aicha had once joked that he harboured romantic feelings for her father, and in return Duarte had slapped her.
Fouad had had someone steal all the belongings from his living quarters in the barracks shortly after.
The Sanhaji family had been favoured by Captain Diego Braga—who now oversaw every commander in occupied ports across Maghreb. Or what was left of them.
Aicha’s grandfather had long since forged thousands of fine weaponry for Braga, and Fouad’s penchant for being particularly good at chess as a child had meant he’d spent countless afternoons sitting with the former commander, entertaining him.
They didn’t see any invader as a friend, but it didn’t hurt to have the favour of one.
It meant—as far as Maghrebis went—that the Sanhaji family were almost untouchable.
Unless directly caught conspiring against the Portuguese King, or practising Islam, there was little Duarte could do to them.
He’d only had the chance to unleash his wrath once.
“Hijabs are forbidden,” he stated, and Aicha only pointed at the curls spilling out of her wrap.
“It is not hijab,” she huffed, and folded her arms. Her shoulders tensed, and though a kernel of fear sprouted inside her stomach whenever looking at Duarte, she could not help the defiance that burst from her lips.
“I see the spoils of your King’s conquest go towards paying you to accost young women.”
Duarte’s juniors coughed to shield their laughter.
He paid no heed, presumably deciding to exact punishment later.
Instead, he narrowed his bright-eyed gaze on Aicha, grabbing the strap of her satchel to drag her forward.
She forced herself not to react, not to let her temper spike like it always did.
Her baba’s protection only got her so far.
Being occasionally mouthy earned her a sneer or a backhand, but holding back her burning temper was necessary sometimes.
She was not the only one that could be consumed with anger, because inciting further violence from Duarte was a slippery slope.
Wrenching open her bag, the commander rummaged around inside.
Fouad’s girls had learned never to transport any goods without the correct permits—they hadn’t been raised as idiots.
“Satisfied?” she asked, her tone soaked with a sarcasm he could have had her arrested for.
Shoving the satchel back at her, Duarte cast his eyes over her. “And why are you heading towards the square in the evening? Off to sell stolen goods?”
A cackle burst from her without permission and the commander’s face darkened. “Are you simple?”
There her mouth went, bypassing the self-preservation that Samira would have split her lip over.
The backhand she received wasn’t exactly unexpected, but it was still a shock to her system.
It collided with her cheek, and her head whipped to the side fast enough to give her whiplash. Fuck, that had hurt.
Before Aicha could caress her own cheek, or even blink in surprise, Duarte grabbed her by the throat, pulling her face close to his.
Instead of gritting his teeth, or yelling, he smiled.
A smile that would lead Aicha to believe he knew something she did not, that he was toying with her.
Something stirred in her chest: apprehension. She hated that smile.
It was definitely not a smile that made people weak in the knees.
Use your blade.
The voice was loud, so loud Aicha did not know how anyone couldn’t hear it.
Cut out his eyes. Make him scared. Make him pay.
Instead of succumbing to it, she sucked in a breath and craned her neck upwards, laughing through quick gulps of air. “Is the heat becoming too much, Commander? You have a shorter temper these days.”
She didn’t know why she persisted in idiotically provoking him.
“One day your family name will no longer protect you,” he stated, pressing his nose against her own as his breath swept over her skin.
To a passing traveller, it would look almost affectionate—with one hand grasping her neck, and the other around her waist. Like the embrace of forbidden lovers.
The closeness of his body was anything but a comfort. It never would be.
Duarte was a cruel man, the tears of a child would not induce softness within him, and cause him to loosen his malicious grip.
He was a man who took joy in punishment, in the same way he appeared to take joy in watching Aicha falter with a smart retort as he pressed into her body.
A promise of what he could do to her, what he wanted to do to her.
Not because his grip was laden with desire for her, but because he knew she would hate it.
Ice crawled up her spine, and fear settled in her chest.
Aicha realised he enjoyed this.
He had excelled in methods of torture, and so his rank within the regiment made sense.
Hunting, Duarte would claim, was his speciality, and the glaring fact that he had yet to find something with which to incriminate Fouad and his family had ignited a vendetta so palpable he would strike down anyone in his way.
“Until that day, Commander, I suggest you relinquish your hold from my daughter’s throat.
” Fouad’s deep, gruff voice interrupted the gathering.
Relief poured from Aicha’s shoulders, sagging them as Duarte turned to him.
She saw the frown lines carved into her baba’s features, burying deeper the more his gaze focused on Duarte’s hands on her body.
Her gaze flickered to his empty fist, clenching as he appeared to understand what Duarte had been trying to do to her.
It was obvious enough. But her baba had always been significantly better at reining in his temper around Duarte, despite the myriad ways the commander tried to elicit a reaction through his daughters.
Fouad took hold of Aicha’s shoulder, forcing Duarte to release his grip, and pulled his daughter towards him as though she were a ragdoll.
She fell into his chest, gripping Fouad’s tunic as she righted herself slowly.
The presence of her baba evoked a resurgence of the confidence she hadn’t had minutes ago, as if Fouad were a safety blanket that would shield her from a bushfire that she had to run through.
Being the daughter of a rebel leader would do that for a person.
Aicha’s eyes keenly followed Duarte’s hand as it moved to rest on the hilt of his sword.
If he unsheathed it, there would be nothing she or her father could do.
Despite each concealing their own daggers beneath their clothing, both would be punished for drawing a weapon they were forbidden from carrying. Aicha tensed, but her baba did not.
He knew Duarte wouldn’t, because laying a hand on a Sanhaji would mean a visit from his superior, wanting to know why Duarte had cut off the hands of his favourite blacksmith.
“Your daughter needs to learn to hold her tongue, Sanhaji.” Duarte straightened his shoulders. “And to respect her elders.”
It was a lecture her baba had given her countless times at home, and one she forced herself to refrain from rolling her eyes at.
“I’ve taught both my daughters to respect those who treat them as they are treated. Reflect on your own behaviour if you find their attitudes unsatisfactory,” Fouad grunted.
The commander’s lip curled. His hand tightened around the handle of his sword, as if on the cusp of drawing it, before he straightened his back.
Pulling away, he assessed both Aicha and her baba, swiftly replacing his sneer with a smirk.
Like his fury had never existed at all. Duarte turned to his two subordinates, motioning with his head for them to move on.
He pushed past the father and daughter, eyes never straying from Aicha’s until he had no choice but to look ahead.
“Have a good day, Commander. Rub cold madisha on your burns!” Aicha called after the group, emboldened by the presence of Fouad at her side.
She flinched as she felt her father slap at the back of her exposed neck.
“Baba!” she protested, hissing at the stinging pain.
The contact of a flat palm to the back of the neck was a particular type of burn, one that could only be matched with a real flame.
It was almost worse than the backhand she had received from Duarte.
It was Fouad’s favourite form of punishment, particularly when Aicha’s tongue became too quick with disrespect.
“Continue to aggravate him recklessly, and I’ll let you spend a fortnight in their dungeons as a teachable experience.”
Aicha grumbled under her breath, choosing not to speak back to her father.
He’d only strike the back of her neck once more if she countered with an irritating response.
Instead, she released a grunt of understanding, placing a palm on her cheek to soothe the sting, and looked up at her father.
He scratched at the skin beneath his beard, the once black hair transitioning into grey.