Kian said nothing. His shoulders barely moved, but she felt the silent laugh rumbling through him. That smug, quiet kind of laugh that sohow made her knees wobble more than a full-bodied roar.
She inhaled sharply. "You’re smug. You’re smug and that’s illegal."
"Illegal?"
"In several imaginary countries," she snapped, bending to retrieve the bowl—which was miraculously intact and still had soap in it, bless the stars.
Her fingers were definitely not trembling. She told them not to.
Kian stood still, arms relaxed at his sides, letting her fluster wash over him like waves against stone.
She stepped in closer. No backing out now. She was Isabella. She never backed down from a challenge.
Even when that challenge was standing half-naked with an unreadable smirk and eyes that could lt her entire composure in one look.
"I’m starting with your arms," she announced, like she was preparing to tend a battlefield wound. "Strictly practical."
He said nothing.
She dipped her fingers in the soap again, then gently, carefully pressed them against his arm.
Holy. Stars.
His skin was warm. Tense. Alive under her touch. And her breath imdiately caught in her throat.
She focused on her hand. Not him. Just the hand. Soapy fingers gliding across tanned, muscled flesh.
She should say sothing.
"See? Bubbles." Her voice cracked. "That’s a good sign."
"Hmm," was all he said, voice a low hum.
It shouldn’t be legal to sound like that while being touched. It just shouldn’t.
She kept going, fingers working slower now, following the shape of his forearm, up toward his shoulder. The slope of his collarbone was next. If she got there. If she survived that long.
"I could... teach you to do it yourself later," she offered, trying to sound casual. Her fingers slipped over a scar near his shoulder, and her thumb lingered—just slightly. "But then again... I am very hands-on."
That got him to move.
Not much. Just a slight tilt of the head, a glance down. But his eyes... they burned into her.
And when his gaze t hers again, Isabella suddenly forgot how words worked.
The bowl nearly tipped again.
She caught it this ti. Barely.
He leaned closer—just enough for his arm to brush hers—and whispered, "You’re still trembling."
"I am not," she lied instantly.
"You are."
Her breath stuttered. "It’s the steam."
"It’s not."
She glared up at him. "Maybe it’s you."
A pause.
Then his mouth curved. Slow. Dangerous.
That smile?
Trouble.
"That so?"
She tilted her chin. "Yeah."
A beat passed. His gaze flicked over her face, then dropped briefly to her mouth.
Then—soft, almost like a secret—he said,
"Maybe."
She didn’t back down. Not even when he said, quietly, "Maybe."
And stars help her, her knees definitely wobbled that ti.
"I never knew the sharp-tongued, bold Isabella could be this shy," Kian said, his voice low, cool as ever—but laced with unmistakable mockery.
Her head snapped up so fast the soap nearly sloshed out of the bowl again.
He saw it instantly—that fire. That spark of defiance that flared in her eyes whenever soone dared doubt her. The gleam of soone not just ready to fight, but eager to win.
His brow lifted a fraction. Barely noticeable. But it was there. Interest.
Of course it was. Isabella was never one to back down. She didn’t just rise to challenges—she created them, nurtured them, and smirked through every impossible step.
And now?
Now he’d dared her.
"Oh?" she said, lips twitching into sothing between a grin and a growl. "You think this is being shy?"
"I don’t think," Kian said flatly, tone as frigid as the shadows pooling around the rocks. "I observe."
She took a bold step forward, water swirling around her thighs. "And what are you observing, exactly?"
"You haven’t t my eyes once since I removed my skirt."
Isabella opened her mouth. Closed it. Then glared.
What—wait. Removed? Her gaze dropped, then bounced back up imdiately, cheeks heating. "You did not—!"
"I started to," he said calmly, as if comnting on the weather. "But you panicked."
Isabella blinked. Oh. He hadn’t finished. Her pulse kicked up in her throat. So he’d paused mid-untying? That smug, composed beast.
"That wasn’t panic," she shot back. "That was... preemptive modesty!"
He didn’t even blink. "You dropped the soap."
She sputtered, gripping the edge of the bowl like it had personally betrayed her. "That was because you breathed on !"
His tone stayed maddeningly neutral. "Still counts."
Isabella opened her mouth. Closed it. Then glared.
"Are you—" she narrowed her eyes, taking another step toward him, "—challenging ?"
His head tilted, just slightly. "Does it work?"
She scoffed. "It might."
"Then yes."
"Oh, you are so smug," she hissed. "So cold and smug and—" she gestured wildly with the bowl, "—and you think I won’t follow through."
"I know you will." His answer was imdiate. Sure. "But I also know your pride will make it interesting."
She nearly dropped the bowl again. Managed to save it—again. (The poor bowl)
The moon cast a silvery glow over his skin, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw, the sculpted planes of his chest. The steam curled between them, thick and sweet, carrying the faint scent of herbs from the soap she made with her own hands.
Her heart was hamring.
"You really think I care about your stupid hide skirt?" she muttered, stepping close enough to almost touch him. "Because I don’t."
"Your eyes keep saying otherwise."
She gritted her teeth.
Kian’s lips curled—just slightly. Cold amusent. But there was sothing else in his gaze now too. Interest. A flicker of heat in the chill.
She stood there, silent for a mont. So close the steam between them thinned. So close she could see the faint scar on his collarbone and the slow rise and fall of his chest.
Then her eyes lifted.
Bold. Steady. Unflinching.
Isabella lifted her chin and said, voice strong and clear, "Take it off then."
A pause. Heavy. Electric.
The moonlight shimred on the surface of the spring. The water rippled softly around them.
Kian’s expression didn’t change.
But the gleam in his eyes?
It sharpened.
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