Chapter 360: Chapter 360: How did you get such an injury all over your hands?
"Oh, it’s nothing," Ophelia said.
Isabella’s eyes snapped up to her face so fast even Glimora flinched. "Nothing?" Isabella scolded, voice sharp as a slap to a lazy morning. "You’re clearly injured. How did you get such an injury all over your hands? For just being away from me for such a short time."
Ophelia shook her head hard, curls bouncing, clutching the flower-and-thorn bracelet like it might run away. "No, no, no need to worry. They are already healed, and soon the scars will disappear. And I’ll be better. I’m no longer weak like before. I am stronger now."
Isabella froze.
Her gaze dropped to those hands—thin white lines crossing knuckles and wrist, faint pink at the edges where new skin was knitting. The marks were small, yes, but there were many. Her fingers tightened unconsciously on Kian’s forearm where it circled her waist. He felt it; his thumb pressed back once in quiet answer.
And that was when she realized it. The reason. The stupid, sweet, infuriating reason.
Her words had gotten to Ophelia.
So this was Ophelia’s way of not only apologizing, but proving it—proving she was stronger now than before. Proving she heard Isabella when Isabella told her to stop bending for people who didn’t deserve it. Proving she could make something hard, alone, and bring it back whole.
Isabella breathed out slow. Okay. Yes, beast people healed faster than normal people. The lines were already closing; in a few days they might be gone. Ophelia was not in danger. But still. That did not mean Isabella would just let it slide. She lifted her eyes.
Ophelia’s face was set. Determined. A little afraid under the brave. Hopeful in a way that made Isabella’s chest ache.
And suddenly—honestly—scolding wasn’t really in Isabella anymore. Not today. Because there it was: effort. Pride held without arrogance. Apology without tears. Ophelia had listened. She had tried. She was here.
Isabella looked back down at the bracelet lying across her palm. It was really pretty—delicate loops of vine, tiny flowers braided between, and the thorns bent perfectly into soft curves so they wouldn’t sting. The pattern was simple but careful; each twist sat snug against the next like a secret promise. Ophelia watched, eyes wide and wet at the edges, heart practically kneeling on the floor. She prayed Isabella would accept it. To be honest, she’d only pulled this off because every time Isabella talked about the "special things" she would teach them verbally, beauty related teachings were part of it—little ways to make life kinder. Ophelia had tried her best with those hints. She only hoped the bracelet came out great.
Silence stretched like a tight rope between them. The room held its breath. Kian looked down at Isabella, trying to read the corners of her mouth, the shift in her eyes. Glimora leaned forward from Isabella’s lap, nose twitching. Luca stood at the door pretending to be a very large coat rack.
Ophelia broke first. "What do you think about it?" she blurted. "I spent all night making it. Do you not like it?"
Isabella blinked, then smiled down at the bracelet like it had told a joke only she heard. She lifted her chin. "Is this the reason you decided not to sleep with me yesterday?"
Ophelia nodded immediately—too fast, too eager. "Yes. Because I didn’t want to spoil the surprise, and I didn’t want you to stop me in the process of making it. I wanted to prove to you that I can do it." Her voice wobbled on prove, as if the word was heavier than the thorns she’d bent.
Isabella giggled. The sound was small and bright and slid into Kian’s chest like warm water. Glimora, emboldened by the giggle, scooted closer to the bracelet and reached out a pink tongue to taste test. Isabella tapped her nose lightly. "Nope. Stay put." Glimora huffed, sat back with great dignity, and swished her tail once like a fine lady insulted at dinner.
"It is very beautiful," Isabella said at last, eyes soft. "It looks really surreal. I like it."
Ophelia sagged, air leaving her in a rush. "Really? Thank you." Relief lit her whole face from the inside. Her grip on the vines loosened; her shoulders dropped a breath.
"Thank you?" Isabella blinked, amused. "Why are you telling me thank you? I should be the one thanking you, because you have made me happy today."
She lifted the bracelet and turned it so the light kissed every curve. The small bent thorns caught like tiny moons. Then she did the petty, real thing—tilted her wrist just enough that it hovered in Kian’s line of sight. See? Pretty.
Kian didn’t move, but his eyes slid to the shimmer and back to her with the laziest approval. His mouth quirked—barely—like a man who would never say adorable out loud but had just thought it. His thumb, still resting at her waist, traced a slow circle that said: Wear it. I’ll make sure no thorn ever finds skin.
Glimora leaned in, nose twitching, tail going statue-still—as if the bracelet was a rival trying to steal her mother. Luca, who had been pretending to be furniture, forgot to breathe for a whole second and then wheezed a tiny cough into his fist.
Ophelia shook her head, stubborn as a door latch. "No, no. I’m the one at fault because I disappointed you. And I don’t like disappointing you. I am sorry."
She said it so sincerely the room clicked quieter. Even Glimora paused her suspicion. Kian’s gaze cooled from king to witness. Luca looked at his feet like they contained the correct response. The apology hung there, clean and honest.
Isabella’s expression softened. The sharp edges tucked away; the warmth came forward. "It’s fine," she said gently. "I was never truly mad at you. I just wanted you to learn how to stand up for yourself and not always have such a good heart for people who don’t deserve it. And I can see you are learning. So it is fine."
Ophelia’s lips wobbled, but she swallowed the water before it became a storm. She straightened her spine like she was putting on a crown and nodded once, solemn. "I will keep learning."
"Good." Isabella held the bracelet to her wrist, measuring. It slipped into place like it had been waiting for that exact arm. She admired it—then, because she was Isabella, wiggled her fingers under Kian’s nose again just to be annoying. He lifted one brow that meant Yes, pest. Approved.
"And if it’s possible," she added, sly warmth riding the words, "teach Cyrus how to make this. So he can teach the men to make it for their women."
Ophelia’s eyes sparked. "Oh! Yes. Yes, I can." She bobbed her head so hard Glimora had to lean back to avoid a headbutt, then gave the bracelet an approving sniff like a master jeweler. "In fact—"
"Hold it," Luca muttered under his breath, picturing the warriors with thorn-pliers, already bleeding dignity. Isabella shot him a look; he shut his mouth, but his ears were laughing.
Ophelia’s gaze drifted toward the corridor. "I think they are even coming with breakfast."
Isabella’s eyes widened. "Wait—what?" She tilted, listening. The hall answered with two signatures she could pick out in her sleep. First: the smooth, almost-not-there slide of Cyrus—quiet as a snake on cool stone, steps so measured the torches seemed to hold their breath. Then, layered over that hush, came the other rhythm: Zyran’s panther prowl, all velvet arrogance and showy heel-to-toe, a cocky swagger that made furniture straighten itself in self-defense. The floor gave the faintest hum, the way stone does when two very different predators share it. Even the air shifted—sweet with breakfast and sharp with trouble—the kind of shift that feels like a window flying open, a wink tossed inside, and a voice purring, miss me?
"Cyrus," Ophelia whispered, her smile blooming so bright it lit her whole face. Her eyes softened like dawn light on water, as if just saying his name filled her chest with warmth. Then, almost as an afterthought, her lips curved wider, and she added in a playful little hush, "And maybe even Zyran."
She said it the way someone mentions a storm cloud when they’re too busy admiring the rainbow—half warning, half tease.
Glimora’s ears sprang up like banners. Luca straightened. Kian did not. He was a mountain.
Isabella immediately tried to get up. She scooted forward—only to be drawn back the exact length of Kian’s arm. The band of his palm at her waist was firm, warm, immovable.
"Please let me go," she hissed under her breath, eyes flashing up at him. "Kian—"
He didn’t even pretend to think about it. "It’s more comfortable with you on me."
The nerve. The honesty. The heat.
Isabella glared, bracelet glittering at her wrist like a tiny crown she’d just awarded herself. Glimora angled her head between them like a referee. Luca looked away to give the moment privacy and then looked right back because he was nosy. Kian’s thumb drew another slow circle. The footsteps came closer. The door’s shadow stretched.
Isabella inhaled to argue. Kian’s gaze said: You’ll lose.
Her gaze said back: Watch me try.