"Oh, Bella," he said gently, like he’d found a tiny bird trying to look fierce. "You’re so cute."
"Stop." She jabbed a finger at him again, because pointing was all she had left. "Stop calling cute. I am not cute. I don’t want to be cute. I am many things—powerful, terrifying, possibly a little unhinged—but I am not cute."
His blue eyes ward. "You’re cute."
"Stop it!" She pressed her hands to her cheeks because they felt like they were about to combust. "I’m going to die. This is how I go."
"Not on my watch," he murmured. The tease was light, but his tone wasn’t. It wrapped around her, protective and sure.
She hated him. She loved him. She was going to dissolve into mist.
To put distance between her and her dignity’s shallow grave, she pivoted, pretending to adjust her skirt, pretending to look for sothing on the table, pretending she hadn’t almost just climbed back into his lap, the temptation buzzing through her body like static.
The morning light spilled over the room—bright, honest, unforgiving—painting the edges of everything in gold. Dust drifted in lazy spirals. The door Glimora had fled through earlier was firmly shut, and Isabella tried not to picture the poor beast sprinting down the corridor like a scandal had dog teeth.
Behind her, Kian moved. Not closer—he wouldn’t crowd her when she was flustered—but she felt the air change when he stood, the gentle creak of leather, the soft whisper of his tunic settling. The space altered around him. He had gravity. He always had.
"Isabella," he said, and even with her back turned, it brushed over the nape of her neck like a touch. "Look at ."
"Absolutely not," she said to the table.
"Isabella."
A beat passed, then slowly
She turned.
He had his arms folded now, composed to the point of cruelty, except for one tiny detail: his hands were clenched, tendons tight, as if he was wrestling the urge to reach for her again. And those eyes—clear, storm-bitten blue—were not cold. Not even close. They were too full. Too much. He looked like a man trying to look like a statue and failing in a thousand tiny ways.
Her laugh bubbled up, helpless and mortifying. "You’re impossible."
"So you’ve ntioned."
She huffed, pacing a tiny line in front of him like a cat deciding where to sit. Her feet refused to pick anywhere that wasn’t near him. "I was so mad at you, you know. Before. I had grievances. A list."
"Mm." His gaze followed her, calm, unblinking. "What were they?"
"I don’t rember," she snapped, and then groaned at the ceiling. "Because you used your stupid mouth to erase my brain. I had righteous fury! I was building a speech!"
"Kisses do that." His mouth twitched again. He was enjoying this. Monster. "I’ll carve it into stone for you, nice and permanent."
"Don’t you dare." She paused, scrunched her nose, and then—because honesty was a curse—mumbled, "It would be very organized if you did, though."
He went very still at that—at the hint she was thinking beyond this morning, beyond the fire still burning between them. It moved across his face like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The smile that followed wasn’t wicked. It was frighteningly soft.
Panic flared. She threw up her hands, words tumbling out to fill the suddenly tender air. "Anyway! Conversation over! New topic—breakfast. Or work. Or the weather. Or how the guards keep pretending not to see us, which is a lie because we are both extrely noticeable—"
"You keep looking down, Bella," he said mildly, though his hand shifted ever so slightly on his thigh, drawing attention to exactly what she was trying not to stare at.
"I do not." She stared directly at his collarbone, which was very safe and very unfairly pretty. "I am a lady."
"You’re swallowing again."
"I have a dry throat," she declared, dignity gathering its last belongings and tiptoeing for the exit. "From—heat. Morning heat. Sun heat."
He tipped his head, a study in polite concern. "Would you like water?"
"Yes." She nodded so fast her hair bounced. "Buckets."
He took one step closer. Not enough to trap. Just enough to tilt the world back toward him. "Then co closer, and I’ll—"
She stumbled back a pace, hands up. "Nope! I know that trick. You’re going to use the water as an excuse to put your mouth on again and then I’ll forget my na and my list and my religion."
"Religion?" He laughed under his breath. "Which one?"
"Whichever one says ’no kissing before breakfast.’"
"I’ve never heard of such a law," his voice was velvet again, dangerous. "Shall I make one of my own?"
She was not prepared for the way her heart yanked. "Stop being charming," she grumbled, but it sounded weak even to her own ears.
He didn’t answer. He just watched her for one long, simring mont, and she could feel the weight of the things he wasn’t saying. It burned hotter than anything he’d said aloud.
Her gaze—may it be struck down—slid south again.
"No," she whispered to herself, squeezing her eyes shut. "Be strong. Look at his forehead. Foreheads are safe."
"Bella."
Her eyes snapped open to his.
He was smiling again. Not evil this ti. Not soft. Sothing in between: a quiet, knowing curve that said he saw her, every skittering thought, every tremble, every ridiculous attempt to control a mont that had already run away with both of them.
Heat surged up her neck like sunrise. She shoved her hair behind her ears, then yanked it forward again, uncertain what to do with her hands. "Stop staring."
"I can’t."
She froze. The honesty of it landed like a hand over her racing heart.
He took a breath, slow, steady. "Co here."
"Absolutely not." She took a step. "Fine." She took another, until she stood close enough to see the flecks of silver in his irises, the tiny nick on his lower lip from where she’d bitten him by accident earlier, the way his breath caught just before hers did.
"I hate you," she whispered, and the smile that sneaked out ruined the sentence entirely.
"I know." He dipped his head, so near their noses brushed. He didn’t kiss her. He just waited, blue eyes heavy with a promise that made her dizzy. "Now..." His voice dropped to a velvet murmur, teasing and sincere all at once. "Why is my Bella mad at ?"
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