The moon was full again. This time it rose blood-red, casting shadows that stretched like fingers across the sand.

The palace had gone quiet.

But Amira was not asleep.

She sat on the edge of her silk-draped cot in the harem chamber, her legs crossed, the golden collar still snug around her throat. Her skin still bore traces of his touch, her mind still heavy with the memory of being watched, bound, and used under a dozen silent gazes.

She told herself she hated him.

She told herself the ...