Alizeh didn’t know what to do.
She felt a bit mortified to have been discovered petting him, and she was more than a little unbalanced by the tenderness of his kiss. She sat very, very still in the dark, too aware of their held hands resting against his cheek, and waited for Cyrus to shake off the last of his stupor. She hoped her pounding heart was not audible in the silence, though she feared that it was.
“Touch me,” he whispered.
Her heart beat only harder. “What?”
He released her hand, but only to press her open palm firmly against his face. For a moment his eyelashes fluttered, and then, quite contentedly, he sighed.
Alizeh realized, with a shock, that he was dreaming.
She knew she had to wake him—that the hour was growing only later; that her fear of the dark was growing only more acute; that she would eventually freeze to death even on this false summer night; and that, more important, they’d be missed—but she agonized over the decision, for he’d endured such brutality for so long she didn’t think she could bring herself to disturb what appeared to be a truly restful sleep.
So she stalled.
Cyrus appeared to be in some in-between state of alertness, aware enough for speech, but too dormant to know hestraddled two worlds. She would wait a bit longer, she told herself, to see if he’d find consciousness on his own. Alizeh didn’t know why he’d fallen into such a strange stupor in the aftermath of his encounter with Iblees; but if Cyrus was still under the influence of dark magic, she worried forcing him to wake would end poorly.
In the interim, Alizeh gave in and did as he asked, caressing his face in careful, steady motions, occasionally drawing her hand over his hair, smoothing the strands away from his eyes. He soon made a soft, satisfied sound, so gentle and unaffected it made her chest ache; and then, like a child, he turned his head in her lap, sliding his hand up the inside of her naked thigh like it might’ve been a pillow.
Alizeh nearly screamed.
Earlier, she’d tugged up the hem of her frock, for she’d used her skirt to mop up Cyrus’s blood, and had then knotted this heavily sullied hem in hopes of mitigating any further transfer of the red stain. And while, yes, she’d noticed that the dress had hitched above her knees—exposing several inches of bare skin beyond the lace trim of her stockings—she’d paid this small impropriety no mind, for the possible exposure of her thighs in almost perfect darkness had been the least of her concerns thirty minutes prior, when she’d thought Cyrus was dead.
Now, she could hardly breathe.
His hand was warm and heavy, his fingers splayed possessively across the innermost expanse of her upper leg, and worse, they were dangerously close to skimming the seam of her undergarments. Already the weight of his touch in sointimate a place had left her feeling a bit faint; if his hand moved even a little higher, she feared she might actually scream.
His head, at least, was holding her dress quite firmly in place—a fact she took comfort in remembering—but she didn’t know what to do. If she were to fling his hand off her leg she would almost certainly—and jarringly—wake him. She’d not hesitate to do so under any other circumstance, but she still lacked the conviction to disturb him any further on so difficult a night, and worse, she didn’t know what would happen if she did.
He exhaled heavily in his sleep then, his warm breath grazing her already sensitive skin, and Alizeh nearly whimpered. She was breathing too fast, alternately wondering whether she shouldn’t just wake him and be done with it, and whether she might not be overreacting altogether.
He wassleeping, after all.
He’d not meant to touch her like this. In fact, she knew him well enough by now to speculate that if he’d any idea his hand was right now resting in such a scandalous place under her skirt, he’d be horrified. He only needed a little rest, she reasoned. Perhaps if his hand stayed exactly where it was, things might turn out just fine.
So when moments later he shifted an inch and his hand moved farther up her thigh, she nearly bit through her tongue to keep from making a sound. His fingers had much more than grazed the silky edge of her underwear, and Alizeh thought she might expire.
“Cyrus,” she said, panicking. “Please wake up.”
He said nothing.
“Cyrus—”
“Yes.”
Her heart was beating too hard. “Are you— Are you awake now? Please tell me you’re awake.”
When, after a long beat, he didn’t answer, she knew she had to do something; she couldn’t sit here in the dark with the heat of his touch searing her; she feared the inside of her head would catch fire. Carefully, she hitched her skirt up a bit higher and prized his wandering hand off her thigh, but she’d hardly breathed a sigh of relief before her fears came at once to fruition. The abrupt motion startled him, and he immediately sat straight up with a gasp, looked around himself in an unsteady motion, and met her eyes. Even in the moonlight, she could tell he was disoriented.
“Cyrus,” she said, overcome with relief. “You’re awake—”
“Alizeh?” he whispered, exhaustion weakening his voice. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you mean?” She tensed. “We’re in the flower field, remember?”
“No,” he said, and he seemed to lose steam all at once, his head beginning to droop. “How did you”—he blinked very slowly—“how’d you get in my room? You’re not supposed to be here.”
Alizeh’s relief became alarm.
