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It helped that each mouthful was a fusion of seasoning. It was a decadent and mouth-watering experience with bursts of spice and richness that kept her craving more.
She took her time chewing and sipping between every single bite, savouring the flavours as her body aches relaxed.
Finally sated, she leaned back, grateful for the small things, and ruminated on the shift in her life.
While her existence was brutal and her oath yet unfulfilled, she’d made friends in the íkhara.
She’d found a kinship she’d not experienced with a group other than close family. It was a welcome sensation, and she noticed herself wanting to linger on Katáne to indulge in it further.
Only as she stood to pay did she catch the whisper of footsteps.
Almost silent but light as they moved through the darkened restaurant.
She whipped around, realising the place was empty of punters.
Everyone had left except for two hooded figures who guarded the now-shut entrance.
She shook her head in frustration as the cafe owner disappeared into the kitchen with haste after flicking a nervous glance at her.
Raising her hands, she summoned her blades into her grasp.
They materialised, and she shifted her stance, ready to take on any attack.
Then she sensed him, scented him, yearned for him.
Her body locked in reaction to his presence behind her, his unseen hulking form simmering with potency.
Sana’a divined his eyes on her, the heat of his presence almost perceptible on her skin.
She swivelled to face him, meeting his silver, glowing, intense stare.
He looked down on her from his impossible height, his gaze penetrating and calculating. He emanated an aura of concealed power.
It rankled her that his aura was palpable, a tangible force that radiated from him.
It was a subtle electric charge, a buzz that sent shivers down her spine.
He sliced his yes to her blades. ‘You can put them away, Shotelai. I mean you no harm.’
Her eyes glittered with suspicion as she let her weapons slip away into their holster against her vertebrae.
Still, she stood, body taut, ready for battle. ‘Fancy seeing you here. Are you following me, Kíríga?’
‘I just want to talk,’ he said, his rumble deep and commanding. ‘I’d like to do so while still preserving my innards. The question is, will you still lunge at me if I sit with you?’
She eyed him for a long moment. ‘I might. If you play dirty games with me.’
‘I have no such plans.’
‘So what do you want?’
‘Let’s start with the niceties. Congratulations on your victory,’ he murmured. ‘You fight with a rare skill and finesse.’
‘Sante,’ Sana’a replied, trying to keep her voice even.
He pulled up a chair and sunk into it with a sigh, crossing one thick thigh over his muscled knee.
He beckoned at her to sit, and she shifted back to her table, wary still of his presence.
