Cyrus could think of nothing now but her small hand at his brow, the home of her arms as she’d held him, the delicious agony of her skin against his face. His throat worked at the remembered feel of her, how he’d touched her in his delirium, drawn the intoxicating scent of her into his head, where it would live, forever, with the whisper of her voice as she’d cried. Her tears had fallen down his cheeks as she’d repeated his name, over and over, begging him to wake. He clenched his fists.
