Page 3 of Heart of Night and Fire

Usually, to find Row standing over her with a judgmental scowl on his scarred face.

With a resigned sigh, she headed into the house, where she found Row preparing supper in their small kitchen. After he put a pot of rice to cook on the burner, he began slicing onions with the same dexterity he brought to all his actions. He was an experienced warrior, and despite his size, he flowed through life with the grace of a dancer.

Zarya went to help, retrieving a bowl of chicken already marinating in a mixture of turmeric, chilies, and dried coriander. She skewered the pieces onto thin metal rods and placed them on the grill.

They worked in silence side by side, their movements practiced and efficient, though the unspoken tension that hung between them was thick enough to cut and serve along with their supper.

While the food cooked, Zarya laid out the plates, glasses, and cutlery. The door to the cottage slammed open, and Aarav stormed in, still sullen and scowling. He parked his wiry frame at the small wooden table without saying a word, his knee bouncing under it.

Row set out the food, and they ate in silence, as they so often did.

Arguments between Zarya and Aarav were as common as the sunrise, and they all dealt with them with the efficiency of people who had no idea how to communicate with one another.

But Zarya’s heart softened at Row’s expression, his black eyes darting between her and Aarav. He wanted them all to get along and find whatever might pass for happiness. But resentment gnawed at her edges, leaving them worn and frayed and easily pulled apart.

Rage and loneliness were her only loyal friends.

The only constants she could remember.

She wasn’t really hungry, so she picked at her food. Row and Aarav nibbled at theirs, too. It seemed all their appetites were suffering.

After finishing his meal, Aarav stormed to his room and slammed the door without another word. Zarya sighed. At least she wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore today.

Once the dishes were cleared, she poured herself a generous portion of pear wine, grabbed a book, and headed into the garden.

A stone path, lined with colorful zinnias and lilies, led her to a wooden pergola, where she settled onto one of the cushioned benches. Dozens of floating lights illuminated the garden, casting everything in a warm coppery glow.

Zarya sipped her wine, its flavor crisp and tart, enjoying the way it softened her organs.

The cottage sat on the shores of the Dakhani Sea, where the water gleamed deep blue against the starry sky. Around her, frangipani, hibiscus, and jasmine grew in bursts of color that mingled with foliage so green it glimmered like the rarest emeralds.

She stared at the water, listening to the soothing roar of the ocean.

It wasn’t an unpleasant prison, but a firefly trapped in even the most ornate jar would still die without air.

Around her neck was a thin gold chain that anchored a clear turquoise pendant she rolled between her fingers. The size of a thumbnail, its faceted edges were cut to form a teardrop. Row claimed it had once belonged to her mother, and it was the only thing she had from either of her parents. Zarya didn’t even have memories of them to comfort her.

She blew out a long, slow breath and let the book fall open in her lap to a page she’d read countless times. She loved nothing more than losing herself in her beloved romance novels, hoping that someday she might find anything resembling that kind of yearning and passion and her eventual happily ever after. Of course, for that to happen, she’d need to venture more than thirty paces from this cursed spot.

A few minutes later, she heard the shuffle of footsteps and, from the corner of her eye, watched Row sit down next to her. She closed her book but kept her gaze focused ahead, scanning the horizon, wishing she could see the worlds and people that lay beyond.

“I’m not trying to torture you,” came Row’s rumbling voice, his tone laced with uncharacteristic sympathy. Zarya had never been entirely sure whether he simply didn’t experience the heavy emotions that burdened most people or if he just had difficulty expressing them. He must really be feeling guilty to be articulating this rare show of compassion.

He placed a large hand on her shoulder, and she glowered at it but didn’t shake him off.

“Just forget it, Row. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“There is nothing out there for you, Zarya. You aren’t missing anything.”

She fixed him with an incredulous glare. “You can’t possibly think I’d believe that.”

He sighed and ran a hand down his face, creases furrowing his brow. “I need to stop bringing you so many books.”

Zarya snorted. “Right, you don’t want me getting any more ideas. Why not imprison my imagination, too? I suppose it makes no difference to you.”

Row exhaled with the weight of a thousand buried secrets. “One day, you will understand.”

“You say that over and over, and yet nothing changes. When is ‘one day’? What really happened to my family? Why won’t you tell me anything?”