Chapter 2 #3
“How juvenile of you.” Aicha rolled her eyes as he continued to grin, chastising herself for the tinge of pink that she felt on her cheeks.
Still, regardless of the years they had collected together, she found herself drowning in a shy embarrassment that only he could evoke.
His smile threatened to push her over the cliffs that lined the shores around the citadel, to force an eruption of all the things she had only thought about saying in her walk over to him.
That she missed him in a way that bordered on obsessiveness, and that when she went this long without being held by him all she could do was wonder if he was thinking of her just the same in that moment.
He always was, and he held no reservations when telling her.
But Aicha had never been brave with admitting her feelings, so she clamped her mouth shut, leaving every sentiment stuck in her heart until it threatened to implode.
“It has not even been ten days since we last saw each other,” she said instead.
“Ten days too long,” he muttered, drawing closer to her.
Aicha raised her dagger to his neck as he pressed his chest into her own. “Would you feel differently if I cut your throat?”
There was no cruel meaning behind her question, only amusement. Nevertheless, Rachid delivered an answer both amusing and irritating.
“I would thank you for freeing me of this torment.”
She scoffed, turning away from him in time to hide her grin, though it was futile. Rachid knew she was smiling.
“You’re insufferable.”
Instead of answering, he moved forward to grip her wrist, pulling her back towards his chest. He bent, placing his forehead against her own, and despite her feigned annoyance, Aicha relented and allowed him to rest there.
His scent, one so distinct and which brought her comfort, settled into her as he breathed out.
He smelled of the salt of the sea, sweat and the freshly forged metal of a blade.
It was home, and it was fury. The two things that soothed her.
Rachid’s eyes closed as he savoured the moment, his hands coming to rest on the back of her neck, nose brushing against her own.
One hand settled beneath her jaw, thumb grazing her chin and lower lip.
“In this life and the next,” he murmured, and Aicha could feel the heat of his breath caressing her skin. She felt alight with fire at every one of his touches.
“In this life and the next,” she repeated, fingers gripping his leather tunic as she angled her head upwards, meeting him in a soft kiss.
“They’ve halved our rations,” Aicha said quietly, eyes staring at the red and orange fabric of the canopy from her place on Rachid’s chest. “Nearly every stall at the souk is almost empty.”
“The Sultan’s plans to starve the King’s forces and people out are working. The gates have remained closed for weeks,” Rachid mused, fingers dancing across the bare skin on her forearms. “But it means our people suffer more.”
The citadel was surrounded by water, with only one gated entry and exit point.
A bridge connected it to the mainland, and though it provided protection to all who lived within the walls, it also blocked them from outside supplies.
That had been the first move the Sultan had made, and if people relied on rumours, his next would be to attack and besiege the citadel. With seventy thousand soldiers.
“I suppose they regret building those walls now,” she commented drily, and received a snort of amusement. “We have to do something about the infants and elders. Perhaps on your next trip you can trade steel for flour?” Aicha felt Rachid nod.
“I will do my best.”
She shifted, turning so that her cheek rested against his chest, and released a sigh. The soft fabric, despite being dirty, was still a comfort to her skin. Soothing the ache of that blasted backhand. When she hissed, she felt Rachid shift beneath her.
“Who did that to your face?” he asked quietly, and it belied the simmering anger he was so good at keeping control of.
Unlike Aicha. Who often felt overwhelmed by hers, and the seducing voice inside her that insisted indulging in it would be for the good of everyone.
“Duarte didn’t particularly like my attitude today,” she stated plainly.
She didn’t want to acknowledge that same flare of enticing fury, if she talked about Duarte—about the way his hands had handled her body, and how his nose had grazed her own—she feared her anger would break through the surface. Not Rachid’s.
Aicha’s rage had hurt the people around her before. Her baba still had scars on his back from the lashes he had taken on her behalf.
Like a balm on a burn wound, Rachid’s movements calmed her thoughts.
His fingers rested on her chin, forcing her gaze up to him, and warmth fluttered in her chest at the tenderness in his eyes.
A tenderness only reserved for her. “It will not always be like this,” he said, and she felt his thumb caress her cheek, the calluses bumping against her skin.
“When we are free, I will give you all that you have ever wished for.”
“An endless supply of meloui?”
His laugh caused joy to burst in her chest, swallowing the abyss of rage and keeping her warm. Pulling her tighter to his chest, and smothering her with his hold, Rachid placed a clumsy kiss on her forehead.
“If that is what you wish, then yes.”
“My wish is to stay here, with you and Baba and Samira. To wake up beside you, and not fear that every time you leave the citadel you may not return.” Rachid’s expression sobered, and the amusement in his eyes shifted into something that bordered on startled, evidently not expecting the seriousness of her reply.
“I wish that too,” he said quietly, and it seemed as if the words pained him.
As if not being able to grant her anything and everything she desired brought him trouble and anger so deep that it would keep him awake.
Aicha’s gaze flickered between his eyes and his lips, watching the way his jaw clenched.
The air that surrounded them had become charged since her confession; a rare moment of candour.
A heat flared in his dark brown eyes, something that demanded attention.
Pulling his face down to her own, their lips met in a kiss that sent a shiver up her spine.
His hand wrapped around her neck, the hold gentle as he angled her chin up towards him, lips soft but his pace far from gentle.
When his tongue grazed her lower lip, a soft sigh broke free, and she opened her mouth.
She was lost to the intoxicating taste of him, his scent invading her senses in a way that frazzled her mind and left her dazed.
With an abrupt burst of energy, Rachid rolled them over until she was trapped beneath him.
A low moan rumbled in his chest as her thighs tightened around his hips, and Aicha’s skin burned with hunger from the inside out.
Their kisses became fervent, rushed in a way that made it seem as if they were running out of time.
One hand remained wrapped around her neck, and the other dug into her hair, holding her head in place as Aicha’s nails dug into his shoulders.
When she felt his hardness press into her, heat and desire pooled between her thighs, and the clench of them around his waist had them both panting for air.
Aicha forced her mind to clear, the haziness pulling back from the edges of her gaze as Rachid buried his face into her neck, breathing heavily. They couldn’t go that far, both knew it. They never went beyond kisses, both knew better.
She was certain that it was not just her that felt the buzzing heat of want beneath her skin. It was a rabid, incessant gnawing ache when she was around him. Rachid released a deep groan that was not born from pleasure, and it pulled a soft laugh from Aicha.
“I should go,” she said, softly weaving her fingers through his locks.
She never stayed long, for Fouad had eyes across the city, and one of his daughters remaining in the home of a man—who was not family—beyond curfew would solicit far too much gossip.
Not that Aicha particularly cared about gossip, but her father’s rants and punishments were too much of a hindrance on her life to risk being caught so idiotically.
“He will not notice if you return before fajr,” murmured Rachid, frustration seeping into his tone as he pushed himself off Aicha, coming to rest beside her.
“Hmm, but others will, and I have chores to complete with Samira,” she countered.
“Would you also like to explain to him why you invite his youngest, unmarried daughter into your home without a chaperone?” Aicha stood, rearranging her hair into her wrap as the sky darkened.
She also knew the risk of becoming carried away should she stay any longer.
“I would not need to explain it to him if you accepted my hand.” He stood now, coming to a halt beside her as he pried her fingers away from the nape of her neck, tying the wrap for her.
“With what mahr?”
Rachid chuckled. “As if you would ever accept a price for your hand. What was it you once said? ‘I am not a goat to be sold and bought.’” His fingers were gentle and meticulous, careful not to catch any hair within the knot.
It was an unusual sight for any who did not know Rachid, who only witnessed the swing of his sword, or met his knuckles with their cheek in battle or training.
Who were faced with his hard stare and furrowed brows whenever he was spoken to disrespectfully.
Yet this softness, this care and warmth displayed with Aicha, was a rare, hidden layer reserved for her.