Oh, who was this man calling "this one"?
That was the only thing going through Isabella’s head as she stared Zyran down like he was a walking violation of common sense.
This one?
This one?!
Was she a loaf of bread now? A furniture piece? An ancient artifact?
Zyran’s smirk grew deeper, obviously satisfied with himself, while Cyrus tensed beside her, visibly fighting the urge to commit murder with his tail.
Isabella’s eye twitched. Just once. But it was dangerous.
She took a step forward, squaring up to Zyran despite the fact that he was built like the villain in a forbidden romance novel and she barely reached his collarbone.
"I dare you to say it again," she snapped, hands on her hips, eyebrows raised like she’d been personally insulted by the universe.
And Zyran?
Oh, that absolute nace just leaned down until his lips were barely a breath away from hers, red eyes glowing like embers in the dark.
"I want to pursue... this one," he purred slowly, enunciating every word like a lover whispering a dirty secret.
Cyrus groaned behind her, one hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose like he was so done with both of them.
Isabella’s jaw dropped.
"Oh no you didn’t—" she began, but she was already marching back toward Cyrus, clearly needing backup. "Did you hear that? Did you hear that?! I’m this one now?! I should slap the demon out of his mouth!"
"I did hear it," Cyrus said, voice calm and low, but his hand flexed at his side. "And I’m thinking about biting him." he muttered only to his hearing.
Zyran chuckled. "Jealousy doesn’t suit you, pink eyes."
Cyrus didn’t blink. "Touch her again, and I’ll remove your hands."
Zyran’s grin widened. "Oh? But she was touching first."
Isabella turned back around so fast her hair slapped her own face. "Lies! He’s lying!" She pointed accusingly at Zyran like a mother catching her child in the cookie jar.
"Am I?" Zyran asked with mock innocence, cupping his chin and tilting his head in a slow, seductive arc. "Because soone was moaning and pushing closer just a minute ago. I have a very good mory."
"Oh, I will end you!" Isabella snapped, stomping one foot like she was calling upon the wrath of every scorned woman in history. "Don’t make get my slippers off and turn into Auntie mode! I will show you small but mighty!"
Zyran laughed so hard he had to lean against a tree again, wiping imaginary tears from his eyes. "I like her. She’s fiery. Can I keep her?"
Cyrus stepped forward, tail flicking like an agitated cat. "No."
Isabella blinked at both of them, mouth slightly open in disbelief. "Excuse ? I’m not so fruit for sale at the village square! You can’t keep !"
Cyrus hesitated, his voice gentle as he asked, "Did he... do sothing to you? You looked... overwheld."
Isabella’s eyes widened as if she’d been caught in a scandalous dream. "I—! That was not—!" She flailed, suddenly hyperaware of everything: her flushed skin, the way her heartbeat still hadn’t settled, and the fact that both n were watching her far too closely.
She turned red from the tips of her ears to her toes.
"I was weak, okay?! My legs weren’t working! It was the moon! Or the heat! Or hormones or—SO cosmic nonsense!"
Zyran clapped slowly, the sound lazy and mocking, like he was lounging through life with no concern in the world. He tilted his head, resting against a nearby tree with the ease of a man who’d just enjoyed the finest performance of his life.
"I have to say," he drawled, lips curving into a wicked grin, "watching you defend yourself is more entertaining than the springti moon dances. And those involve oil. And feathers."
Cyrus blinked, clearly caught between horror and secondhand embarrassnt. "...Moon dances?"
Zyran winked. "Sacred rituals. Or sin, depending on your angle."
Isabella slapped both hands over her face with a groan. "Great. Amazing. I’m trapped between an angel and a walking sin, and this is my life now."
Zyran’s grin widened. "You think I’m sin?"
"I said walking sin, not sexy sin, don’t twist my—ugh!" she flailed.
"So you do think I’m sexy," he said, voice low and teasing.
"I ant it as a curse!" she cried.
"Still counts," he said with a wink that probably caused flowers to bloom in six different regions.
Cyrus looked away so fast it was like soone had shouted ’nudity’. His gaze found a tree and locked on like he was attempting to solve a deep philosophical question hidden in the bark.
"Lovely weather," he mumbled, which was code for ’I’m being respectful and trying not to spontaneously combust from jealousy.’
Isabella peeked up through her fingers, saw Zyran still looking at her like she was dessert he planned to ruin, and imdiately turned to Cyrus. She gently elbowed his side, her voice a whisper of panic.
"I’m gonna say sothing dumb," Isabella muttered, already cringing.
Cyrus gave a soft hum and nodded, the faintest smile curving his lips.
"Mm. Go on."
The kind of nod that said I’m listening, and I’ve got you.
She exhaled dramatically, still trying to shake off the heat in her chest—and everywhere else, really. She didn’t like how Zyran made her feel like her organs were on fire and her brain was jelly. But at the sa ti, Cyrus’ steady presence beside her was like standing next to a portable sense of peace.
Which made her current situation feel like a particularly chaotic love triangle-thed fever dream.
One made her want to slap and kiss and then slap again.
The other made her want to share tea, hold hands, and build a ho out of blankets.
What was this emotional buffet she had walked into?
Her brain was lting.
Her dignity? Lost sowhere behind that tree with Cyrus’ attention span.
Her pride? On life support.
And still—Zyran just stood there, smug and satisfied like he’d personally designed her spiral.
She glared at him. "You are the worst."
He pouted. "Only because you haven’t experienced my best."
Cyrus choked softly, eyes still locked on a tree.
Isabella threw up her hands. "Can soone, anyone, cast a spell on this man to be silent for five minutes? Just five."
Zyran placed a hand on his chest. "Cruel. I bring charm, passion, spontaneity—"
"You bring chaos, headaches, and inappropriate comnts."
"Balance," he said smoothly. "Yin and yang."
Cyrus, bless him, cleared his throat gently and offered, "Maybe we should, um... return to the village? Before sothing... else happens."
That ’sothing else’ was vague but ominous, like the warning label on a cursed object.
Isabella sighed. No more weirdness. No more fever dreams. No more looking at Zyran’s mouth and wondering how it would feel against her neck.
With all the dramatic grace of a soap opera queen fed up with her suitors, she straightened her spine, flipped her hair over her shoulder like she was walking off a runway, and lifted her chin high.
"Let’s go back to the village," she declared.
Her tone said final act, scene over, exit stage left.
Zyran just smiled, like he was already planning the sequel.
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