Chapter 358: Chapter 358: Hey, baby
Isabella never knew a mere beast could be so expressive and so judgmental. The little white fluffball stood in the doorway like a tiny gatekeeper of morals. And to make things better—or worse—she was staring directly at Kian. Not a blink spared for Isabella at her side, not even one. Those round eyes said everything: You. Move. That is my spot.
Kian raised a brow, the slow, lazy kind that said he wasn’t threatened by beasts the size of his forearm. The corner of his mouth twitched, but his gaze stayed cool. He looked back at Glimora like she had just caught him stealing the sun and she was the owner. The message between them was clear enough to make Isabella want to laugh and hide at the same time.
"Hey, baby," Isabella cooed, tilting her head, voice going sweet and soft in that way that always melted Glimora’s bones. Only then did Glimora finally tear her eyes off Kian to look at her. The judgment didn’t leave her face, but recognition slid in; her ears flicked forward, and her tail did one nervous curl like a question mark.
It was still better than the stare she gave Kian.
"Come here," Isabella added, smiling, lifting one hand to beckon. Her fingers opened and closed in a little rhythm, soft invitation. She was still tucked in Kian’s arms—back against his chest, his knees bracketing her hips on the stone seat—warmth rising through his fur like a secret fire. The window to the left threw a pale strip of light across the floor, leading straight to them like a path Glimora could follow.
For a few beats, Glimora refused to rush. One leg set down. Then another. She placed each step like a queen reviewing her court, tail lifted just high enough to make her look taller than she was. The scrape of nails on stone, the small huff she made under her breath, the little pause to check Kian again—everything screamed: I am coming to my throne, do not breathe wrong while I do it.
One foot in front of the other, that was the proper way. So that was what Glimora did until she reached Isabella’s knees.
Even there, the judgmental stare stayed. Her eyes slid from Isabella to the arm cinched around Isabella’s waist and back up to Kian’s face. It was exactly the look of a child who returns home to find a stranger sitting in her favorite spot at the fire—shocked, disappointed, lightly offended. I cannot believe you gave my place to someone like that.
Yet the throne called. Glimora did not waste time. She hopped, lags landing on Isabella’s thigh, then climbed with the determined wiggle of something small and very sure of its rights. She wriggled into Isabella’s lap like a warm scoop of cream, patted twice to flatten the fur throw into her shape, and sat. She made herself comfortable—front legs tucked, chin slightly lifted. Then, because her soul was petty and honest, she turned her head, stretched her neck long, and looked back at Kian over her shoulder as if to say: You see this? I am watching you.
It was so funny Isabella had to bite her lip. "Stop it," she told Glimora, playful scold, tapping the beast’s tiny nose with a fingertip.
Glimora cut her a side-eye—sharp, elegant, do not police me—and then turned her back, chin forward, minding her business like a queen who had issued a decree and did not plan to repeat herself.
Before coming here, before seeing what she saw, Glimora had been so, so excited. Cyrus had said the words, Isabella’s sweet is coming, and the beast had practically grown wings. Coconut buttermilk. Dessert. That was the fire under her legs, the energy that had pushed her to jump and claw and nudge the door until it swung all the way open. She wanted to be the first to tell Isabella, to drag her by the sleeve if she had to, to sit on her lap and present the news like a treasure.
But then she had seen... this. Her mama, pressed back against the very large lion king, tucked into his arms like she belonged there, like a puzzle piece finally placed. Earlier. That nasty, confusing thing. The hugging. The kissing. Glimora had assumed the big male would be gone by now. So why, precisely, was Kian still here? And still the same distance from Isabella’s skin? Questionable. Very.
She wasn’t going to complain out loud—she had manners—but she felt a little jealous, and the tail betrayed it with one annoyed flick. She did not hate Kian. He wasn’t as sweet as Cyrus (no one was), and he wasn’t as annoying as Zyran (thank the spirits). Manageable. Preferable. A big white lion to match her own white fur: if a stranger walked in right now, they would see a picture that looked very much like a family. Big white, small white, and the woman sitting between them like she had been built for that exact spot. It was... cute. Annoyingly cute.
The room smelled like sun-warmed stone and the faint, lingering sweetness from the kitchen. Kian’s heat wrapped around Isabella’s back, steady, and Glimora’s small warmth pooled in Isabella’s lap. The door, still swung wide from Glimora’s overachieving entrance, framed the hallway like a dark mouth. Isabella relaxed into the competing heats, her head turning to kiss Glimora’s velvet forehead and then brushing Kian’s jaw by accident. Not that Kian minded. His arm tightened a little, just a little, enough to say mine without choking the word.
Just when Isabella thought the day had reached peak visitors, footsteps approached. Not one set; two. The rhythm told her before the faces did—one light and quick, one heavy with that warrior’s roll. Familiar. Very. She felt her stomach flip, not from fear, but from the silly, schoolgirl embarrassment that came from being seen sitting in your crush’s lap. She tried to get up on instinct, hands going to Kian’s forearm.
Kian’s hand did not move. The arm around her waist stayed where it was, solid as a wall. She twisted and glared up at him, whispering, "Get your hands off my waist. I want to get up."
Glimora turned at once with a huff, ears pinning, eyes blazing with fierce agreement. Mama wanted to stand. Why were we still in lion jail? She planted one leg on Kian’s wrist like a tiny deputy and gave him the most serious face she owned.
Kian looked down at both of them, unamused and deeply amused at the same time. Her angry expression, the beast’s angry echo. He didn’t budge. "I do not feel like it," he said, voice flat, stubborn as mountain, and his grip stayed where it was.
He wasn’t trying to be stubborn. Okay—maybe he was. But in his mind there was no reason to separate because people were coming. This wasn’t a hidden thing. This wasn’t forbidden. He was the king; who exactly would talk back to his queen? He didn’t see a rule against staying where he was. He only saw a reason to continue.
Isabella’s eyes widened. She actually couldn’t believe him. The nerve. The confidence. The nerve again. The heat flushed up her neck, half outrage, half something she would not name with witnesses. She opened her mouth, ready to scold him into releasing her with all the force of a woman who ran a palace with words alone—
Footsteps crossed the threshold.
Ophelia’s light steps, first. Luca’s heavier tread, right behind. Faces familiar, eyes widening, a scene framed like a painting: Isabella in Kian’s lap, Glimora sitting proud on Isabella’s legs like a jewel, Kian looking down like a storm that had decided to be gentle today, sunlight cutting a bright ribbon across the floor between the door and their little pile of warmth.
Isabella breathed in a small gasp and snapped her mouth closed again, spine going straight, chin lifting. If she could not escape, she would own it. If she could not scramble free, she would look like she meant to be exactly here.
Kian’s thumb pressed steady at her waist, and his jaw slid against her temple as he turned his head, those blue eyes cutting to the door, cool and unbothered. Glimora, in full judge mode, stared at the newcomers like they’d come to pay tax.
Isabella’s heartbeat thudded once—twice—somewhere loud and foolish. Humor bubbled up to save her. She swallowed it down before it got her in trouble. The room waited, warm and bright and very public.
Ophelia and luca already entered the room.