I must remember that.
13
Amy
“GOOD MORNING.”
He’s looking at me through eyes that give nothing away and I’m shy and nervous, feelings fluttering through my chest that make me far too aware of him, and me, and the possibility that we might have conceived a child. It’s ridiculous. I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up, but the idea has been implanted in my mind and now it’s all I can focus on. And to think, I fought this very possibility tooth and nail when it was first raised!
“Hi.” I clear my throat, offering him a small smile. His eyes roam my face as though committing it to memory. I miss him. I ache for him. We haven’t slept together since Thakirt. Not since I told him I hated him right before we came together. Guilt heats my blood. I want to hate him, but I don’t. Truth be told, I find it impossible to reconcile this man with the man who threw my father from the country.
“I was hoping we could have breakfast together.”
It’s not exactly a question and yet he’s still standing right there, uncertain somehow, watching me like I might instead demand that he leave. I tilt my head away from him to catch my breath and it’s then that I realise his side of the bed is still perfectly made.
“You didn’t come to bed last night.”
He doesn’t answer. When I look at him again, his face shows tension. Not just his face, his whole body radiates tightness.
“Zahir? What’s happened now?” My stomach loops as I fear the worst – more rumours about me. Something else to accuse me of.
Perhaps he senses my train of thought because he swears under his breath and crosses to me, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting a hand on my thigh. It’s a comforting touch but desire flares through me, hard and fast. I’m just wired this way now – his proximity sets something off inside of me, completely beyond my control.
“Nothing bad.” His smile reaches into my chest and twists everything around, except it’s a smile that doesn’t show in his eyes. He’s trying to reassure me. He pities me. “How do you feel?”
A small laugh bubbles in my throat, an unconscious sound that surprises us both. “Honestly? All over the place.”
He lifts one brow.
My heart thumps hard against my ribs. What’s the matter with me?
“What does the tattoo on your side mean?”
Surprise is evident in the depths of his eyes but he otherwise doesn’t react. “This one?” He lifts his shirt off and I swallow hard, my ability to concentrate in direct proportion to his unclothed state.
I nod, lifting a finger to the scrawled, cursive text. It’s beautiful.
“The closest translation in English would be, Alone but for the stars.” He then repeats it in Qabidi, the words mesmerising and addictive.
I attempt to say them myself, shaking my head at my poor attempt.
“Why did you get it?”
“It’s an old proverb,” he says with a lift of his broad shoulders, as though it doesn’t matter. Desire flares in the pit of my stomach, the sight of him topless spinning my senses at a million miles an hour.
“It’s kind of sad.”
“I disagree.”
“Shocking,” I can’t help remarking with a hint of sarcasm. After all, what is there we do agree on?
“It’s honest,” he concedes, his hand on my thigh moving higher, a frown on his face as his eyes follow the contact. I wonder if he’s touching me against his will, fighting the same drugging sense of need that is forever pulling at me? I struggle to get out of his orbit. I feel drawn to him even when I know I should resist, and I feel that pull now.
“How?” But I’ve moved closer, sitting straighter so our bodies are only inches apart. His eyes move to my shoulder, where the strap of my singlet has fallen down. His gaze makes my skin heat as though he’s touched me.
“We’re all born alone,” he remarks. “We live alone, die alone, but for as long as there are people there are stars. It is a constant we can rely on, perhaps one of the very few in life.”
My heart stammers. “Like I said, depressing.”