"Pa ra ra pa pa ta," Isabella hummed, voice light and breezy as she wandered through the stone arch of the palace’s rear courtyard, Glimora snoozing like a purring pebble in her arms. "Where is he?" she murmured, scanning the sun-warmed area with a slight frown, brows pinched together. Her slippers barely made a sound along a sun-hardened trail scattered with small stones.
And that was when her ears caught it—laughter.
Not just any laughter. That soft, kind, sunshine-laced laughter that belonged to one very specific man.
Cyrus.
Her brows shot up.
She didn’t quicken her pace—but something in her steps changed, lighter, sharper. Like her instincts had gone on high alert. Like something in her gut had begun tapping on her ribs.
And as she turned the corner past the tall hanging vines and the strange stack of smooth boulders, the source came into view.
Oh.
There he was.
Cyrus. Kneeling by a smooth flat stone, a half-formed pot cradled in his hands, bare arms flecked with clay, his wrap tied loosely around his waist.
His head was thrown back slightly as he let out a soft chuckle—gods, he even laughed pretty.
And sitting right beside him—too close—was Ilyana.
The other woman was leaning into him, her fingers grazing his as he shaped the clay, her laugh high and a little breathy like she was trying too hard. Her hands kept brushing his. Her knee was definitely touching his.
"Oh wow," Isabella muttered under her breath, blinking slowly. "She’s practically trying to crawl into his bloodstream."
Glimora stirred faintly in her arms, shifting with a sleepy squeak. Isabella adjusted her grip on her and exhaled slowly.
Neither of them had noticed her.
Ilyana was giggling again—giggling—like she just heard the funniest joke in the world, one Cyrus probably hadn’t even meant to be funny. And Cyrus, in that sweet sunshine way of his, didn’t seem to notice. He just smiled and leaned in a little more, guiding her hand gently around the pot’s curve.
"Like this," he said, his voice low and soft, full of that gentle care that made him so damn... good. "You have to let the clay move with your hand. Don’t fight it."
"Ohhh," Ilyana replied, practically glowing. "So soft... just like you."
Isabella’s lips flattened into a thin line. "Oh please," she muttered.
Of course Cyrus didn’t notice the flirty tone. Of course he didn’t notice the way Ilyana’s fingers lingered too long. He was too busy being kind and helpful and everything perfect. Always so... nice. Too nice.
Isabella didn’t say a word. She didn’t step closer.
She just stood there in the shade, holding a sleeping beast and watching her favorite boy smile at someone else.
And even though she’d never, ever admit it—not even under royal interrogation or magical truth serum—something twisted in her chest.
She wasn’t mad. Please. That would be ridiculous. Obviously.
She just... noticed. That was all.
And took a deep breath. Because apparently, he was too busy to notice her standing right there.
Just as Isabella turned, ready to disappear like a shadow in smoke, Cyrus looked up. His eyes found her instantly—like they always did. His body straightened and he stood quickly, wiping his hands on his fur wrap, a spark of brightness lighting up his face.
"Isabella!" he called, his voice warm, full of that unmistakable affection that had once made her forget the strangeness of the beastworld.
Ilyana turned too, her fingers still dusted with clay. She offered Isabella a smile—one of those perfectly polite, sweet ones. The kind of smile that meant "Hi! I’m harmless," even though it felt like a dagger wrapped in honey.
Isabella froze. Her spine stiffened. Her toe twitched.
"Fuck," she muttered under her breath, the word slipping out like it had been waiting at the tip of her tongue all morning, eager for its moment to shine.
All she’d wanted was a peaceful walk. Maybe pace the entire beastworld while muttering to herself like a misunderstood prophet. Not run into this.
No conversations. No smiling. No weird flirtations. Just her, Glimora, and the fantasy of vanishing into a quiet cave with decent lighting and no emotional obligations.
A week of silence? Ideal.
A month? Heavenly.
A year? Dreamy.
An eternity of being left alone with a pet beast and selective amnesia? Yes, please.
But no. Of course not. The universe had plans—and it included pottery, giggles, and Ilyana.
She turned back slowly, the movement smooth but heavy with reluctance. Glimora stirred in her arms, a soft, sleepy rustle of fur against skin. The little beast, warm and featherlight, burrowed closer, her velvet snout twitching as it pressed more firmly into the dip of Isabella’s collarbone. Tiny puffs of breath tickled Isabella’s chest, rhythmic and soft, like a heartbeat made of air.
Isabella adjusted her hold instinctively, her fingers brushing over Glimora’s silken coat. The little creature gave the faintest sigh, her curled limbs relaxing again. But even asleep, she flinched slightly—sensitive, as always, to her mistress’s mood. The tension in Isabella’s arms must’ve felt like a storm warning. Her grip had grown a shade too firm. Her pulse too loud.
Isabella didn’t loosen up. She simply swallowed the storm and wore it in her eyes instead.
"What?" Isabella asked flatly, her expression unreadable. She didn’t smile. But she wasn’t glaring either. No, she was carefully walking the line between don’t talk to me and I won’t throw a rock at you yet.
Cyrus stepped forward gently, as if approaching a wild animal. "You were standing there..." he said, his voice soft and easy, just like it always was. But there was a slight squint to his eyes now—his mind clearly working through the sudden frost in the air.
"So?" Isabella snapped, adjusting Glimora slightly. "Do you own where I get to stand now?"
Her tone wasn’t loud, but it had bite.
"I can stand anywhere I want to stand," she huffed, glaring just past him.
Cyrus blinked, caught off guard by the sharpness. "No—I mean, of course you can, I just thought you... needed something," he said quickly, voice dipping lower now, concern blooming across his face like a slow bruise. The smile he’d worn earlier began to dissolve.
"Oh yes," Isabella replied, too brightly, too fast. "I did need help to make shampoo. But not anymore." She tossed her head slightly, eyes locking onto Ilyana now like she had just remembered the woman existed.
"Since you seem busy."