[Craving detected,] Bubu said imdiately, sounding thrilled. [New mini quest: Soothe the belly beast. Reward: tiny increase in winter resistance for you and the babies.]
"Stop naming my stomach," she snapped ntally.
She stepped into the palace hall and spotted Kian reviewing the new patrol routes on a stone table.
"Kian," she called.
He looked up at once. His usual cold expression softened as soon as he saw her.
"I want soup," Isabella said seriously. "Hot, with at and those roots Cyrus brought in yesterday. I do not want to chew too much."
Kian blinked once. "I will make it."
She paused.
"You?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied.
She knew Kian could kill beasts easily, lead hunts, fight enemies. But cook?
Still, her stomach was already imagining warm soup, so she did not refuse.
Behind the palace, there was a simple outdoor cooking area. A stone fire pit, so flat rocks to use as tables, and a rack with simple tools.
Kian stood in front of the fire pit, trying to arrange the wood.
He crouched down, struck flint to make sparks, then watched the fire catch.
It looked fine.
Until he tried to adjust the fla.
Either it almost went out, or it jumped too high.
Isabella watched from a few steps away, hugging her own arms.
He is so powerful outside, but in front of a small fire, he looks like a confused lion.
He cut the at into pieces that were... too big for soup. Then he cut the roots unevenly. So were thin like grass, others were thick like stones.
His expression did not change, but his movents were a little stiff.
She could see he was struggling.
She sighed and walked closer.
"I will help," she said.
He imdiately raised an arm, blocking her with his body like a wall. "Stay there. The fire is hot."
Isabella slapped his hand away lightly.
"I introduced fire to you," she said with a small glare. "Do you think I am scared of it?"
"It is not about fear," Kian replied.
He looked at her belly, then back at her face.
"You are not scared of anything," he said quietly. "That is the problem. I do not want you to get hurt."
Her heart skipped a beat.
For a mont, the cold wind and the ssy firewood disappeared. There was only his low voice and those serious eyes focused on her.
She turned her head slightly so he would not see her cheeks getting warm.
"Then do not hurt my eyes," she muttered. "Let at least cut the roots properly."
He hesitated.
She took that as agreent and stepped around him.
She picked up the stone knife and began slicing the roots into evenly sized pieces.
Kian stood very close behind her, watching every movent carefully, as if the roots might attack her.
"Put the thicker pieces in first," she instructed. "Then the at. Then the softer herbs later, or the taste will vanish."
Kian nodded.
He added the ingredients in the order she ntioned.
When the fire jumped too high again, she reached forward to adjust the wood. He quickly grabbed her wrist.
"Careful."
She looked back at him with a raised brow. "If you keep stopping my hands, the soup will never be done."
He did not let go imdiately.
His hand was large and warm around her wrist. She could feel the difference in their strength clearly.
For so reason, that made her heart flutter.
Finally, he released her slowly.
She stirred the pot with a carved wooden ladle. The sll of at and roots rose up with the steam.
Kian did not step away.
Instead, he moved behind her, as if to shield her from the wind. Then, without much warning, he slipped his arms around her waist from behind, resting his hands gently above her belly.
"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice a little higher than usual.
"Holding you," he replied simply.
She could feel his chest against her back, solid and warm. His breath brushed over her ear. His muscles pressed lightly against her as he leaned in.
Her heart turned into a small drum.
"Let go," she said. "You are being shaless."
"You can push away," he said.
She did not.
Instead, she pretended to focus hard on stirring the soup. Her face, however, betrayed her. The tips of her ears and neck had turned pink.
He watched silently, morizing the sight.
She felt his chin briefly touch the top of her head.
"Thank you," he said softly.
"For what?" she asked.
"For not running away from anymore."
Her hand paused for a mont on the ladle.
She exhaled slowly. "If I run, who will make your food?"
He laughed under his breath.
Kian did not laugh often. His laughter was low and very short, like a rumble deep in his chest. But whenever he laughed near her, Isabella felt the sound scratching against her heart.
When the soup was finally done, they sat side by side near the fire.
Kian held the bowl carefully and blew on it before handing it to her.
She tasted it.
It was not perfect. So pieces were still slightly hard. The flavor of the herbs was not fully balanced. But the warmth spread from her mouth to her chest and down to her belly.
"How is it?" Kian asked.
She swallowed and looked at him.
"It is... acceptable," she said. "Next ti, cut the roots smaller."
His eyes relaxed. "There will be a next ti."
She realized her mistake and glared at him.
"Do not think too much," she said. "I am only using you as a cooking tool."
"Yes," he agreed easily. "Use as much as you want."
She almost choked on her soup.
Under the pale winter sky, the cold air wrapped around the two of them. The fire crackled softly. Steam rose from the bowl between their hands.
She pretended to be annoyed.
He pretended not to notice her blush.
Both of them knew the distance between them was already much smaller than before.
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