"So you’re saying Shelia is suddenly ’sick’ and now Kian declared her room is off-limits?" Isabella asked, rubbing her eyes with one hand while still half-lying on her fur mat, voice dripping with sleepy sass.
"Yes..." Opehlia replied quietly as she packed away the wooden bowls. Her shoulders sagged like a defeated rabbit. "There are guards outside her room, lots of them. They won’t let me in no matter how many times I beg..."
Her voice was soft, almost pitiful. She clearly missed her friend—but also looked like she hadn’t slept in years.
Isabella sat up straighter. That strange little tingle crawled up her spine. Something was fishy. Fishier than Opehlia’s last attempt at grilled snake meat.
But before she could even roll her eyes properly, the hide curtain rustled.
Enter: Cyrus.
With soup.
He stepped inside like he owned the entire jungle. Smooth, slow, confident—as if he was gliding, not walking. His eyes locked onto hers and never once looked away. Even the soup in his hand looked elegant.
Isabella blinked, then narrowed her eyes.
Oh.
So now he shows up?
He walked over, sat beside her like nothing happened, and offered her the bowl like he hadn’t been MIA for two days.
She gave him a look. A whole paragraph in a single glance. But the moment he smiled—that warm, devastating, guilt-free smile—Isabella felt her soul betray her.
Ugh.
Why was this beast so stupidly handsome? With that angel face, she couldn’t even get properly mad without feeling like she was scolding a baby bunny.
She bit her tongue—literally—to stop the words from flying out.
Instead, she crossed her arms and turned her head like a queen who’d just been offered last season’s fur wraps.
Cyrus only smiled wider.
To others, she looked stern and unbothered. But to him? She looked like a pouty bunny who’d just been denied her favorite fruit.
"I’m sorry I wasn’t here to supervise Shelia and Opehlia during the cooking yesterday," he said softly, his voice like morning dew on a lotus leaf—pure and calm.
Isabella didn’t respond. She gave him nothing. Arms crossed. Jaw clenched.
He sighed. "If I had been there... someone wouldn’t have tried to poison you."
The words dropped like a rock.
She didn’t turn to look, but if she had, she would’ve seen the guilt flash across his face. The way his fingers curled just slightly around the bowl. The tightness in his jaw before it was wiped away by that same fake-serene smile.
He was used to it, wasn’t he? Hiding behind his calm.
But Isabella? She couldn’t believe her ears.
Poison? Sure. Whatever. But what about him ghosting her?
Did this man seriously think she was mad about the soup incident?
HELLO?! She almost died of neglect, not poison!
"I made this one myself," Cyrus added, gently nudging the bowl closer to her. "And I tasted it before giving it to you."
She blinked.
Her puffed cheeks betrayed her—just a little.
"You what?" Her tone was flat, but her eyebrow had already shot up. Iconic. Judgy. Beautiful.
"If it was poisoned, I wouldn’t mind," Cyrus said seriously. "I’d rather—"
"Mmh?" Isabella tilted her head slowly, cutting him off.
"So you’re saying... if this soup was actually poisoned, you’d still taste it? You’d just risk your life like that?"
Cyrus nodded like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Isabella stared.
Oh no.
He was serious.
She let out a dramatic scoff and turned her whole body toward him. "Are you—stupid?!" she wanted to yell, but didn’t. Her hand twitched. Her patience twitched harder.
Why was he like this?! Why was he risking his life for someone he barely knew?! Why did he look so sincere and precious doing it?!
He was supposed to be this big scary snake monster—not some sacrificial cinnamon bun with a six-pack!
"Why didn’t you come to see me all this time?" Isabella finally asked, arms crossed like an empress in her night robes, her voice sharp and noble—as if she was interrogating a palace thief, not a man holding soup.
She didn’t even understand why she cared. She really didn’t. Totally didn’t. Not at all. Probably.
Cyrus opened his mouth, looking like he was about to launch into a dramatic speech. "After I saved you, I—"
"WHAT?!" Isabella’s eyes went round, her hands shot up like she’d just realized she was sitting on a fire ant nest.
She whirled to Opehlia with the drama of a palace concubine discovering betrayal. "You mean he saved me?! And no one told me?!"
Her voice cracked three times.
Opehlia blinked out of her Shelia-induced depression like a sleepy deer. "We thought... Kian told you?" she offered with wide eyes and a very innocent look that only made her seem more guilty.
Isabella slapped her own forehead.
Seriously?
She thought back to when she woke up—blurry vision, half-conscious—and now that she really focused... yeah, there was a tall blurry man with suspiciously nice arms leaving the room.
Aha!
So that was him!
It all clicked now. He had saved her. And she? She just blinked at him, probably drooling, and rolled over like a spoiled panda.
If it had been her saving someone, using up all her spiritual energy and risking death, only for them to wake up and ignore her?
She’d have dragged that person out of bed for a lecture.
She would’ve made them feel guiltier than a thief caught stealing sacred peaches!
But Cyrus? Cyrus just stood there. Looking sweet. Looking tragic. Still smiling like a gentle monk who had achieved inner peace.
She snuck a glance at him.
He really didn’t seem angry. If anything, he looked like he was waiting to be scolded.
This man...
"Cyrus..." Isabella finally met his gaze, and her heart did something rude inside her chest. Thumped. Loudly. Rudely.
What was she going to say again?
Oh right. Thank you.
But the moment she opened her mouth, she panicked.
Nope.
No thank you. A thank you might lead to something else. And that something else might involve feelings. And she didn’t have time for feelings. Or... chest thumping.
Why is she even thinking that?!
She rolled her eyes and instead—
"I hope the soup is good," she said with the grace of someone pretending to be cold and totally failing.