Where Blood Burns

Chapter four

The morning of the wedding broke in a rush of gold and bells. Barcelona’s sky was clear, the air heavy with heat, and the villa brimmed with energy. Women swirled through the halls in dresses of silk and lace, children darted between rooms, men barked instructions about cars and flowers and guests.

Khalid stood before the mirror in his room, fastening the last button of his crisp white shirt. The reflection staring back at him was calm, composed, practiced. Only the faint tension in his jaw betrayed the truth—that the house itself pressed down on him, thick with expectation.

When he stepped into the corridor, the noise hit like a wave. Voices, laughter, the perfume of roses and citrus blossoms, the sound of shoes against marble. In the center of it all moved Zariah.

She wore green, the silk catching every flicker of sunlight. Her hair was pinned back with gold combs, a few loose strands escaping rebelliously to frame her face. She was luminous in a way that made the rest of the world blur.

Their eyes met across the hall. She smiled, but only for him. A smile that said, I see you drowning under all this, and I’m the only air you’ll get.

He forced himself to look away.

⸻

The ceremony was a blur of music and vows, of wine poured and blessings spoken, of the bride radiant in white lace. Khalid played his part, standing tall, shaking hands, smiling for photographs. He bowed his head when the elders prayed, clapped when the crowd cheered.

And yet, through it all, he felt her gaze.

During the songs, he saw her at the edge of the crowd, clapping lightly, eyes on him. During the vows, he caught her leaning against a pillar, head tilted, studying him with that same amused intensity she wore the first day they met. Even during the meal, when he sat among his cousins, her laughter carried across the courtyard like a thread, pulling him tighter.

By the time night fell and the villa exploded with music and dancing, he could no longer ignore it.

⸻

“Dance with me,” she said.

It was not a question. She appeared at his side as the music swelled, her hand already reaching for his. He hesitated, but she didn’t. She pulled him onto the floor, weaving through couples until the crowd swallowed them whole.

“I told you before,” he muttered, “I don’t dance.”

“You are dancing,” she countered, stepping closer, pressing her palm against his shoulder. “Badly, but still.”

The rhythm surrounded them—guitars strumming, hands clapping, voices rising in chorus. He tried to keep distance, but the space between them collapsed with every beat. Her breath brushed against his cheek, her laughter rippled against his chest.

“You’re stiff,” she whispered, her mouth near his ear. “Loosen up. It’s only a dance.”

“It’s never only with you,” he said before he could stop himself.

Her smile curved, triumphant. “Good. Then maybe you’re finally learning.”

⸻

They spun once, twice, and then—by some stroke of chance—the crowd shifted, and they found themselves pushed against the edge of the courtyard, half-hidden by a curtain of jasmine vines. The music dimmed here, muffled by walls and distance.

Her back brushed the stone. His hand lingered at her waist. The world narrowed to the heat between them.

Zariah’s eyes locked on his, daring, demanding.

“You’re thinking too much,” she murmured.

“You’re not thinking enough.”

“Maybe that’s why you need me.”

The words curled between them, thick with challenge and invitation. He could smell her—wine and citrus and something darker, something entirely her. His hand rose, almost without permission, brushing the line of her jaw.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t breathe.

For a moment, the kiss was inevitable. It hovered, suspended in the charged air between them.

And then—

“Khalid!”

His name tore through the spell. An uncle’s voice, calling from the crowd.

Zariah stepped back first, the sly smile already slipping into place, as if nothing had happened. “Duty calls,” she said softly, echoing the words from nights ago.

He swallowed hard, forcing composure as he turned back to the noise and light of the wedding.

But the taste of her lingered on his lips, though they had never touched.

⸻

That night, long after the music ended and the guests had left, Khalid lay awake in the suffocating heat. His body ached with restraint, his mind restless with what almost was.

They hadn’t kissed. Not yet.

But he knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he wanted to.

And he knew, just as clearly, that once they crossed that line—nothing in this villa, in this family, in his life—would remain the same.

The slow burn was becoming unbearable.

And it had only just begun.