Isabella didn’t move a muscle—her arms stayed locked over her chest, her expression sharp and unimpressed. Her lips were pressed into a firm line, but her eyes? Her eyes were practically screaming. The full force of her glare told Cyrus: "Go on. Answer her. I dare you."
And just to make sure her point was made loud and crystal clear, she tilted her chin toward the curtain like she was physically directing him to go greet his precious visitor. That sa look won had been giving n since the dawn of ti—the silent, universal language of "She’s. Here. For. You."
Cyrus stood tall and disheveled, blood dried across the bare skin of his chest and arm like war paint, but he didn’t even blink. His broad shoulders were back, his jaw tight, but his eyes—those ridiculously soft pink eyes—remained fixed on Isabella like she was the only thing in this entire world that mattered.
Without shifting his gaze even once, he raised his voice just enough for Ilyana to hear.
"Leave, Ilyana," he said, and though his tone was calm, it was ice-cold. "It’s late, and Isabella doesn’t like visitors at this ti."
The air shifted.
Isabella’s brow ticked up. Okay, damn. She did not expect that level of blunt honesty. Honestly, part of her was already ntally preparing to feel second best, for him to say sothing gentle and vague like, "Can we talk later?" or "Give a second." But nope. That was cold, savage rejection, and she felt it like a warm slap of satisfaction to her pride.
She didn’t smile. Of course not. That would be too easy. Instead, she slowly looked down and pretended to inspect her nails even though her hands were still folded tightly.
Outside the curtain, Ilyana’s soft voice trembled with awkward hope. "But I have dicine for your wounds. I’m sure your... sister will understand."
Isabella flinched.
There it was. That cursed word.
Sister.
She almost gagged. That label, once a useful little cover-up, now rubbed her all kinds of wrong. It wasn’t just off. It was offensive. Disrespectful, even.
She should’ve lied better.
Cyrus didn’t miss the shift in her expression. He saw the quick flinch, the way her mouth twitched with irritation, and the fact that she suddenly looked anywhere but at him. His voice dropped lower, gentler—but it still held no invitation.
"I don’t need your care," he said. "Isabella will be treating herself."
Now it was Isabella’s turn to blink up at him, her frustration cracking just a little at the edges.
Huh.
He really said that?
Her arms didn’t fall, but the stiffness in her shoulders relaxed by a few notches. She studied him quietly now, her face unreadable but her heart suddenly racing in her chest like an idiot drum.
Did that... feel good?
No. No, of course not. She didn’t care what he said to Ilyana. Not at all. Definitely not.
Ilyana’s voice cut through again, this ti smaller, confused. "A-Are you sure?"
Isabella let out the most dramatic, exasperated sigh to ever leave a woman’s lungs. Her eyes rolled so far back, it was a miracle they returned.
"IIyana, he is sure," she said flatly, loud and clear. "Please leave. I am trying to rest."
She didn’t even fake the nice tone. Why should she?
There was a beat of stunned silence, then Ilyana’s voice faltered. "Oh. Okay."
Another pause. "I’ll leave now. But don’t forget to call if you need anything, Cyrus."
Her voice dropped at the end like a balloon slowly deflating.
As the footsteps faded, Isabella scoffed, spinning away dramatically like a soap opera queen.
"Yeah, don’t forget to call her if you need anything, Cyrus," she mocked, voice pitched high and mocking as she crossed the room to fuss over Glimora’s little blanket nest like it was the most urgent task on the planet.
But Cyrus didn’t move. He didn’t laugh. He just kept watching her—intently, softly, like he was trying to morize every irritated wrinkle in her brow.
He took a step forward.
Isabella whipped her head to glare at him, cheeks puffed, lips tight. "What?"
"I’m in pain, Isabella," Cyrus said gently.
She blinked.
Her arms dropped.
"You don’t... look like you’re in pain," she muttered, eyes narrowing as she scanned his cuts again.
They were shallow. Bloody, yes, but definitely not bad enough to explain the ache in his voice.
What she didn’t know was that Cyrus wasn’t referring to any of the injuries on his skin.
It was internal. Quiet. Gnawing.
The ache of seeing her angry with him.
The dull, persistent throb of guilt and longing. Of unspoken words. Of always being just one misunderstanding away from her pulling away entirely.
He wanted to say all of that. He wanted to tell her that the real wound was the distance between them. That he hated seeing her hurt. That he hated hurting her. That he wished she knew how hard it was to pretend like everything was fine when it wasn’t.
But Isabella, still flustered and not at all in the mood to unpack complicated feelings, looked down at his arm and clucked her tongue.
"Tch. We should’ve taken that dicine from her," she said, grabbing one of his wrists and inspecting the dried blood. "Now I have to go brew another."
Cyrus just stood there, letting her take over his personal space like it was hers to begin with. (Which, let’s be honest, it kind of was.)
Her eyes flicked to his chest, her fingers grazing near a cut that looked red and inflad.
"I think I might have sothing better for your cuts," she muttered, brow furrowing.
"Oh?" Cyrus tilted his head slightly. "Better than Ilyana’s ancient moss paste?"
She shot him a look. "Obviously."
He gave a small hum, nodding. "Mmh."
His eyes never left her. Not as she stepped back to grab sothing from the corner of the room. Not as her hair brushed her cheek and she blew it out of the way with an impatient puff. Not even when she stumbled over a log on the floor and tried to play it off like she totally ant to do that.
No, Cyrus watched her like she was sunlight dripping down into the shadows of his cave. And he wished, more than anything, that she’d just look at him the way he looked at her.
But for now, this mont—her treating his wounds, her being near him, her being mad but still here—was enough.
And he wasn’t going to ss it up.
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