Chapter 373: Chapter 373: I know. I have excellent taste
"Okay, now you’re really starting to sound like Zyran," Isabella groaned, tipping the bowl to test its warmth. The steam kissed her wrist. "You’re being ridiculous."
"I’m being serious." He didn’t blink. "To you, perhaps it is kindness. To him, it may be something else."
Her breath caught. The words lodged somewhere inconvenient—between heart and pride. "Why are you speaking like you’re jealous, Kian?"
"I am jealous, Isabella," he said simply. No performance. No roar. Just a truth laid down like a blade. "I don’t like the thought of sharing my woman."
Color flooded her cheeks. She looked down so fast the ends of her hair brushed his forearm. "Stop it. Who is your woman?"
"You are," he said.
She couldn’t fight a smile, so she hid it in the bowl. She lifted the spoon, dipped, and tasted. Bliss bloomed behind her teeth. "Wow," she breathed, eyes brightening. "Kian, it tastes so good."
His answering smile wasn’t the cold king’s; it was the man under the crown. Heat gathered low in her stomach for reasons that had nothing to do with sugar.
"Let me tell you a secret," she said, leaning in as if the grass could eavesdrop. "I can’t actually cook."
One of his brows tipped up. Admiration sparked there even as amusement threaded his mouth. She hurried on, embarrassed and bold at once. "I know what you’re thinking—how did I teach anyone to cook? I don’t know. I’m good at giving directions. But if you put me in a kitchen? I panic. That’s why I’m grateful for Cyrus. I don’t know what I’d do without him."
She rambled. She knew she was rambling, but the words wouldn’t stop. "He remembers the small things. He tastes and adjusts. He listens. Without him, I’d probably make smoke and excuses and call it soup."
Kian went quiet. Not the heavy kind; the thinking kind. Her voice kept going, but his thoughts drifted down a new road she’d pointed to without knowing.
What would she do without Cyrus?
For the first time, a thought he didn’t like pressed against his ribs: maybe he wasn’t doing enough. He was a good king to his people—firm when he had to be, fair when he could be. He had been a dutiful son, a protective brother. Those roles required discipline and strength. But with Isabella it was different. With Isabella he had to be soft in the right places and unyielding in others; he had to learn a language made of small mercies and everyday attention.
If he wanted her to look only at him, he had to earn that looking. Not with edicts. Not with territory. With warmth. With time. With care so consistent it felt like the ground.
He watched her tap Glimora’s head with the back of one finger. "Behave," she murmured, then lifted a little spoonful and offered it. Glimora licked the edge, eyes going starry, a satisfied purr rolling out of her like tiny thunder.
Kian felt the smile before he noticed it. He shifted closer on the grass, the space between them narrowing until the side of his knee brushed her calf. His scent was sun and iron and something that always made her chest loosen, like safety had a smell.
She blinked up at him, startled by the sudden nearness. He slid a hand to her waist, not to trap but to steady, and tugged her gently, effortlessly, until her shoulder met his chest. The world slowed. The wind softened.
He dipped his head and kissed her forehead. It wasn’t a show. It wasn’t a claim. It was a promise set lightly on skin.
For a while they simply sat and let the quiet mend them. The field hissed with wind; a hawk wheeled high. Children’s laughter drifted from the river path and faded again.
Glimora, sugared and smug, planted her chin on Isabella’s knee and studied Kian like a tiny commander grading a soldier. To Isabella’s surprise, he dipped the spoon and offered it to the beast first.
Glimora blinked, licked, and chirped, unbearably pleased.
"You’ll spoil her," Isabella said, but she didn’t move away from him. Her shoulder stayed tucked to his chest as if that spot had always been saved.
"Then she’ll expect the best," he said. "That’s fine."
A bee wandered by. Kian lifted his hand in front of Isabella’s face—small shield, simple reflex. Heat of palm, touch of shade. Something stubborn inside her unclenched.
"Thank you," she said.
He shrugged, ears a shade darker.
She tipped the bowl; Glimora rose like tide to invade. Kian lifted the bowl just out of reach with an easy stretch. The beast’s head followed up, baffled by long arms. Isabella snorted.
"Be nice," she nudged.
"I am," he said solemnly. "Teaching patience."
"Look who learned jokes," she muttered, failing to hide a smile.
Her gaze tugged back to the women in the distance, threading moon-white shells and laughing when the strings tangled. The sound tugged at her too—gentle, ordinary joy.
"You like that," Kian said.
"What?"
"When people are happy and you didn’t have to fix them first."
She swallowed. Accuracy should be illegal.
"I like this," he added, thumb sweeping once over the fabric at her waist. "You, breathing easy."
She scooped another spoonful to hide the trip in her pulse. Then, impulsive: "Here." She lifted the spoon to his mouth. "You feed everyone. Let someone feed you."
He almost refused; then he bent and tasted, eyes never leaving hers. The spoon was a ridiculous bridge, and still heat curled through both of them like a passed spark.
"It’s good," he said, lower.
"I know. I have excellent taste." A beat. "In desserts."
"In other things too," he murmured.
She rolled her eyes bravely and lost the battle the instant his soft laugh tugged her closer without hands. The world seemed to lean closer, waiting for her answer and his patience.
"Wouldn’t you be joining the village today," he asked, voice low against her hair, "in preparation for the full moon festival?"