Chapter 11 #5
It was only when her mind was clear that she realised how far Rachid had gone to intervene when he had yanked her away.
As her mind had darkened into a blankness in the midst of her violent fury, Rachid had fought to salvage it.
As the ringing in her ears subsided, she could finally recall Rachid’s incessant apologies to Francisco and the bartering for a freshly forged steel dagger that he would personally deliver—if he allowed the incident to be swept under the rug.
Then he had dragged her away, fury weaving into the stiffness of Rachid’s large shoulders.
“I wouldn’t have been hurt. A donkey could fight better than him.”
Rachid’s eyes closed momentarily as he ran a hand down his face. Aicha couldn’t help but smile; she enjoyed raising his blood pressure.
“That is not the point, Aicha—”
“Why do you even care? Do you not have anything better to do than involve yourself in my business?” She pushed past Rachid’s shoulder, her force strong as he stumbled ever so slightly back and she began to walk away.
“Some dalliance with a merchant’s daughter to keep you busy, surely? What was her name again? Zina, was it?”
She heard the heavy footsteps of his leather boots pursue her as she continued on, followed by his snort of amusement.
“You appear to have taken a keen interest in my personal matters,” Rachid said loudly, and the smugness etched into his tone was enough to convince Aicha to keep her gaze focused ahead of her out of spite. “I did always believe that green suited you, habiba.”
If she turned around now, she would lose the battle of who cared less.
Instead, she hurried her steps, which Rachid infuriatingly had no trouble following, as Aicha attempted to suffocate the unwanted feelings that pulled her stomach in several directions.
An excitement that only he could trigger had begun bubbling—one she would deny existed to any who asked—and with it, something less viscous than her rage tightened around her throat. She would ignore it.
“If you are implying that I am jealous, then your arrogant delusions have only worsened with age.”
She heard his laugh as they turned onto her street, busy as always, and then the sound of him greeting neighbours as she moved towards the smithy. In the hopes that Fouad or Samira were inside, and able to cut through whatever heated flames she felt by just being in the same room as them.
The door was unlocked when Aicha stepped in, and she was hit with the burst of intense heat—severe enough to beat the sun outside—from the hearth.
Quickly casting her eyes across the room, she noted that it was empty, the fire burning but no metal on the anvil nor settled in the fire.
As if Fouad or Samira had taken a short break.
“Aicha.”
If her eyes rolled any harder, she would have induced a headache, and she was unwilling to turn back to Rachid as he closed the door behind him.
When she looked over her shoulder, he appeared both tired and amused, and his steps were slow as he moved towards her.
Slow enough to evoke a flurry of nervousness the closer he got; it pushed her to take steps away from him.
Rachid noticed her nervousness, his head tilting and a brow rising as the slightest of smiles tugged at one corner of his lips. It was both a pleasant surprise and utterly charming. She hated it. She refused to let him win.
“Do I make you nervous, habiba?” His voice was warm, rich like the mint in atay she loved to drink.
“No!” she shot back, rooted to the spot as they came chest to chest, as if it would prove her point. “And stop calling me that.”
His amusement was fleeting, and she watched as his face settled into one of seriousness. A sincerity in his tone she did not expect bled through. “I did not have a dalliance with Zina.”
A small scoff escaped her, turning her head away from him. “I don’t care.”
“Aicha!” he exclaimed, as he softly gripped her chin and forced her to look back at him. “Can you not see you have held my pathetic beating heart in your hand all this time?”
Rachid stunning her to silence was a rarity.
So rare, in fact, that he laughed as he watched her eyes widen and simply stare for several moments.
She tried to pull away from him, but Rachid wouldn’t allow it, instead he gripped onto one of her elbows, and as she pressed a hand into his chest he took the opportunity to wrap his hand around her wrist and keep it there.
It was too close. Too intimate. Closer than even when they duelled, and the space between them was not brimming with animosity or angry frustration.
It was something else, something both far too tender and electric.
When he stood this close to her, Aicha’s vision blurred, she couldn’t think clearly, and instead she could only find herself thinking how devastatingly handsome he was when he smiled.
A smile that was both bold and vulnerable.
Or how when she felt his breath caress her skin, she wondered what his lips would taste of.
“What are you even saying?” Her voice was quiet, as if becoming any louder would disturb the moment and ruin the illusion.
“Since the first time you bruised my jaw with your fist, I have found you vexing, stressful and utterly beguiling.” His hand around her wrist tightened, pressing her palm further into his chest so that she could feel his heartbeat.
It was fast, erratic, and just like her own at that moment.
Her heart beat so fast she feared it would burst from her chest. “Why would I ever want a dalliance with someone else’s daughter, when all it takes is Fouad’s youngest no effort to hold all my attention? ”
“I’m not that young,” she said, a breath of amusement escaping her nose at the sentiment.
He rolled his eyes. “Five years is an age to me,” he joked.
“That’s because you’re an old man and a fool,” she shot back, and received a short chuckle in response.
Rachid released her elbow, no longer needing to hold her in place, and instead wound a curl around his finger, watching it spiral before he tucked it behind her ear. “That I am.”
They remained there in silence, Aicha unwilling to step away because the moment was soothing, and she feared that it would disappear.
That Rachid would forget the moment had happened or choose to ignore it had occurred in the first place.
So she allowed herself to sink into his warmth and the beat of his heart, and the soft strokes of his callused thumb on her wrist.
After a beat, she dared break the silence. “They were going to give Elias three lashes for stealing a pear he didn’t take.”
“I know,” he said softly. “I understand.”
Aicha looked up at him, surprise etched across her face and eyes wide. “You do?”
“Always.” He nodded, leaning down to press his forehead against hers, his eyes closed as if talking took all the effort in the world. “I just— I need you to be smart. To protect yourself as well as others.”
Allowing herself to be swept away in the moment, and to surrender to the softness of his touch, Aicha pulled him closer to her. Gripping the leather tunic on his shoulder, she leaned into him, breathing in the scent of him that would soon become familiar and home.
Fire and blood and the scent of the sea in the morning breeze.