Page 89 of Crown of Death
I open my eyes, and find myself nose to nose with a sleepingCyrus.
His ever-furrowed brows, always tense with stress or power, are finally relaxed. His lips are slightly parted. His head rests on his pillow, his arm extendedout.
It was his arm I’m lyingon.
His other is draped over my side. He shifts, his leg draping over mine, pinning me down. Holding meclose.
I blink, slow, tired. I study his dark eyelashes. His hair is wild, standing on end, draped over his forehead. It’s thick. So thick, it’s all I can do to keep my fingers from running throughit.
My heart rate increases. But I tell myself to keep it under control. The last thing I want is for it to wake himup.
Enjoy this while it lasts, I think tomyself.
I relish the contact. My skin to his skin. Lying here as if he is mine. One unpleasant person tangled up in the arms and legs of another unpleasantperson.
Contentedly, I let a little sighloose.
Cyrus’ eyes flutter open. Slowly, heblinks.
A tiny smile pulls on my lips, and my insides flutter when his eyes are not empty thismorning.
Slowly, he raises a hand up and cups the side of my face, his fingers splaying into myhair.
“Are you a dream?” he breathes, searching myeyes.
I shake my head slightly. “No.”
His search deepens. “Do you ever dream ofme?”
My heart rate picks up. “Almost everynight.”
My pulse doubles at that look in hiseyes.
Emotions rage through me at lightning speed. The crack of thunder roars in my ears as I reach up, holding onto Cyrus’wrist.
And I give up the fight as I lean forward, letting my eyes slideclosed.
Like falling as you fall asleep, I startle back, because suddenly there is no body besidemine.
“What do you think you are doing?” a growl sounds from the opposite side of theroom.
I startle, blinking fast, searching forCyrus.
He stands beside the door, quickly trying to secure the towel from last night around his waist onceagain.
His eyes glow brilliant red, rage and disgust on hisface.
“I…” I stutter. “Cyrus,I-”
“Who do you think you are, to be so presumptuous?” he growls as he marches to the closet. He closes it most of the way and I hear him yanking through the hangers. Raging through drawers. “What gives you the audacity to think you can kiss theKing?”
My mouth hangs open as I shift, kneeling on the bed we shared last night. “Cyrus, Idon’t-”
He stalks out of the closet. He wears a pair of jeans, still unbuttoned, showing his black underwear. But he does not wear ashirt.
“It is not your place,” he seethes, his eyes narrowed andburning.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” I demand as my blood begins to boil. “You can’t look at a woman the way you look at me, you can’t hold me the way you’ve held me, without a woman thinking you might wanther.”