Where Blood Burns

Chapter two

The days before the wedding unfolded like silk, slow and heavy in the Barcelona heat. The villa buzzed with preparations—flowers arriving by the cartload, tables set in the courtyard, a kitchen alive with the clatter of pots and the aroma of saffron and garlic. Aunts moved about in clusters, their voices rising in overlapping waves, while uncles retreated to shaded verandas with wine and cigars.

Khalid watched it all with the practiced detachment of someone who had trained himself to stay on the edges. He had learned early that if you stood still long enough, people stopped asking questions. But Zariah had not stopped asking questions.

She never did.

On the second morning, he found her in the orchard again, perched on the same stone bench, an orange balanced in her palm. She tossed it lightly in the air, catching it without effort, as if daring gravity itself.

“You’re brooding,” she said as he approached.

“I’m thinking,” he corrected.

“Same thing, only less interesting.” She tore into the orange with her thumb, juice spilling over her hand, and bit into a wedge with a sigh that made it seem like she had tasted freedom itself.

He tried not to look at her mouth. He failed.

“You could help with the preparations,” she said. “They’re drowning in flowers and lace inside.”

“I’d only be in the way.”

“That’s the point.” Her eyes glinted with mischief. “Sometimes being in the way makes life more fun.”

Khalid shook his head, but he stayed.

For a while they sat in silence, the sound of cicadas rising in the stillness. He was aware of every inch between them—the way her bare leg brushed the stone, the sticky sweetness of citrus clinging to her fingers, the faint curl of her hair at her neck damp from the heat.

When she offered him a slice of orange, he took it. Their fingers brushed again, as if by accident. Neither of them pulled away quickly enough.

⸻

By the third evening, the villa was overflowing with relatives, cousins upon cousins arriving from distant cities. Laughter echoed in the hallways, children darted barefoot across the tiles, and someone was always singing. Khalid tried to lose himself in the noise, to blend into the blur of tradition.

But Zariah always found him.

At dinner, she slid into the seat across from him, her red dress a deliberate strike against the sea of muted tones around them. She did not speak much, but her eyes spoke enough. Every time he looked down at his plate, he felt her gaze like a touch against his skin.

“You’re quiet,” she said at last.

“I prefer listening.”

“Then you’ll hear things you shouldn’t.”

“Like what?”

She dipped a piece of bread into her wine and smiled. “Like me.”

⸻

That night, unable to sleep, Khalid wandered the villa. He found himself outside the library, its doors ajar, lamplight spilling onto the marble floor. Inside, Zariah was curled in an armchair, one leg tucked beneath her, a book in her lap.

“You read,” he said, surprised.

“You say that as if it’s rare,” she replied without looking up.

“I didn’t think you had the patience.”

Her smile was small, but sharp. “Some things are worth waiting for.”

Their eyes caught across the room, and the silence that followed was not empty but full, charged, as though the air itself had been drawn tight like a string ready to snap.

Khalid felt the pull in his chest, the urge to step closer, to touch the strand of hair falling over her face. But he stayed where he was, hand tightening around the doorframe.

She closed the book softly. “You should sleep.”

“So should you.”

“Maybe I like the night better.”

He lingered a moment longer, then left, the weight of her gaze trailing him down the hall.

⸻

The days bled into one another, a dance of avoidance and nearness. She moved through the villa like flame, and he moved like shadow, always circling, always keeping just enough distance. Yet the distance grew thinner with every glance, every word, every shared silence.

The wedding drew closer. The music grew louder. The heat pressed harder. And still, neither of them touched.

But the fire waited.

And it was only a matter of time.