Glimora slept soundly in the corner, her soft breaths barely audible over the quiet crackle of the oil lamp.
The room was dim, warm, heavy with the faint scent of burning wood and sothing sweet—the wine Isabella was currently swirling in her cup. She sat on the floor beside Cyrus, shoulder to shoulder, her knees drawn close, her golden hair still damp from the night’s rain. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—just fragile, like the pause before a confession.
"This wine is good," Isabella murmured after a while, lifting the cup to her lips again. Her words ca with a lazy smile, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion and sothing else. The drink had painted her cheeks a soft shade of pink, and her voice held that velvety slur that ca just before tipsiness turned to trouble.
Cyrus turned his head, his tail flicking once against the floor. "You shouldn’t drink too much," he said quietly. "It’s stronger than it slls."
She waved him off. "Cyrus, please. I can handle it."
"You said that last ti," he reminded her gently.
She chuckled, leaning her head back against the wall. "And did I die?"
He sighed—long and patient. "Not yet."
Her laughter was small but real, echoing faintly in the stone room. For a mont, it almost sounded like the kind of laugh that used to fill the palace before everything had gotten... complicated.
But soon, her smile faded. She lowered the cup, staring into the wine like it held answers. "Why do you think he did that?" she asked suddenly.
Cyrus stilled.
"I an," she went on, voice quieter now, "why would Kian push away like that? He looked at like—like I was sothing dangerous." Her eyes dropped to her lap. "But he’s never... he’s never looked at like that before."
Cyrus’s throat tightened. He wanted to tell her the truth—that he had seen sothing monstrous flicker inside Kian tonight. But the last thing he wanted was to make her fear the man she still looked at like he hung the moon.
"He wasn’t himself," Cyrus said finally, voice low. "You know that."
She humd faintly, the sound soft and aching. "I know. I know he isn’t like that." She took another sip, ignoring the way Cyrus frowned. "I don’t bla him. I just—" Her fingers tightened around the cup. "Did he not want anymore? Was that it?"
Her words hit him like claws to the chest. Cyrus turned to her, his gaze softening, his voice firm. "That is not possible."
She blinked, glancing up at him.
He held her gaze, no hesitation in his tone. "You are the most beautiful woman in this entire universe, Isabella. No one could ever reject you."
The words were simple. Honest. They ca out steady, but he could feel the weight behind them, the truth he could never say aloud pressing against his tongue.
She went quiet for a mont. Then, slowly, she smiled. "You really think so?"
Cyrus’s lips curved faintly. "I don’t think. I know."
She laughed softly at that, the sound loosening the heavy air around them. "You’re too sweet, Cyrus. That’s your problem. You’re too good for this world."
He looked away, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "And you," he said, "are too reckless for it."
She leaned toward him, laughing again, this ti louder. The wine was doing its work—her cheeks flushed deeper, her words grew looser, her movents freer. She pointed at him, trying to look serious but failing miserably. "That’s why you’re my favorite," she declared.
Cyrus blinked. "Your favorite?"
"Yes!" she said proudly. "You’re my favorite because you’re kind and calm and you don’t yell at like Kian or flirt shalessly like Zyran. You just... listen."
"I’m honored," he said dryly.
"You should be," she replied, giggling into her cup before taking another sip. "You’re the best, Cyrus. My best friend. My best boy."
Cyrus’s ears flicked back, his chest tightening at the sound of her voice—soft, affectionate, drunk. She didn’t even realize how those words could undo a man like him.
He watched her as she kept talking, her thoughts spilling out in scattered pieces—about Kian, about the dance, about how she wasn’t sure if she was angry or hurt or just confused. She talked like soone trying to untangle herself, and Cyrus listened because that was all he could do.
But when she started pouring herself another cup, he reached out and gently took it from her hand. "That’s enough for tonight."
She blinked at him, pouting. "Hey—"
"That’s enough," he said again, his tone soft but final.
She sighed dramatically. "You sound like Kian right now."
"Then maybe you should listen," he said, smiling faintly.
She leaned closer, eyes glossy and unfocused, and before he could pull back, her hand slipped around his neck. His entire body went still—muscles tensing, breath catching.
"Isabella—"
But she didn’t let him finish. With a tipsy giggle, she leaned in and pressed a quick, warm kiss to his lips.
It was clumsy, fleeting, tasting faintly of wine and sothing heartbreakingly sweet.
Then she pulled back, her smile dazed and innocent, like she didn’t even realize what she’d just done.
Cyrus didn’t move. He just stared at her—utterly frozen—while her laughter lingered in the air between them, soft and dizzy and intoxicating.
Her laughter faded, softening into silence, her hand still resting at the back of his neck. The warmth of her touch seeped into his skin, too real, too close.
The room felt suddenly smaller — the air thicker, heavier. Isabella’s eyes, still hazy from the wine, shifted from playful to sothing deeper.
Her lips parted slightly, breath brushing against his skin as her gaze lingered on his mouth. Then she leaned in again, slower this ti.
Cyrus’s heart stuttered.
The kiss wasn’t clumsy like the first — it was deliberate, gentle, and impossibly slow. She pressed her mouth to his, tasting him with a quiet hunger that made every muscle in his body lock.
He should’ve moved. He should’ve stopped her. But his mind blanked, and his body betrayed him.
Her lips moved against his again, testing, coaxing, her hand sliding from his neck to the side of his jaw. "Let in, Cyrus," she whispered against his mouth — a plea, soft and trembling.
Sothing inside him broke open. Without aning to, he obeyed. His lips parted, and the world tilted.
The kiss deepened.
Her fingers curled into his red hair, her body pressing closer until there was no space left between them.
She moved like she’d done this a hundred tis before, like she’d always known exactly how to unmake him. Cyrus’s breath hitched as she shifted, her knees sliding to either side of his hips, straddling him with quiet confidence.
The sound of her na left his throat in a broken whisper. "Isabella..."
She didn’t stop. Her lips brushed down his jaw, featherlight and reckless, and every touch made his restraint fray. His hands hovered helplessly at her waist, unsure whether to pull her closer or push her away.
Then, with visible effort, he caught her wrists and stilled her movents. His voice ca out low, strained, almost pained. "No, Isabella. You’re drunk. We shouldn’t—"
But before he could finish, her finger pressed to his lips. Her eyes, glossy and bold, t his with a look that dared him to argue.
"Shh," she whispered. "Don’t also push away tonight."
Her voice was soft but firm — steady, confident in a way that made his breath falter.
"I don’t want to be alone," she murmured, the words trembling with honesty. "I’m not drunk. Not that drunk to not know what I want anymore."
Her hand slid down, resting against his chest where his heart thundered beneath her touch. "I know what I want."
And before he could gather his thoughts — before he could stop the storm she’d already unleashed — she leaned in once more.
Her lips brushed his, slow and certain, her voice barely a whisper against his sleeve.
"I want this, Cyrus."
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