“Habibti,” her husband said, touching a kiss to her lips.

There was a scar at her breast, and another in her heart, for people had died because she lived.

“Hayati,” he breathed, pressing another to her ear and stealing her thoughts.

Around her, silver gossamer. Above, a painted sea of stars. “Roohi,” he rasped, feathering her jaw until they were both

panting, until a hot tear rolled down his face and fell to the hollow beneath her shoulder, searing her bare skin.

“Why do you cry?” Zafira whispered.

Roohi, roohi, roohi. He stitched her soul anew. “Because my heart cannot contain it.”