Chapter 362: Chapter 362: Get up
Cyrus was the first to see them. He was the first to pause with a large wooden tray in his hands. Steam curled from lidded bowls; coconut and honey rode the air. His eyes locked with Isabella’s, and she gave him a quick, guilty smile that tried to be brave. Then his gaze slid to Kian.
The tray dipped a hair as the tendons in Cyrus’s forearms tightened. His pink eyes dropped to Kian’s hand—broad, warm, possessive—wrapped around Isabella’s wrist like it had always lived there. The sight hit harder than hot steam. Cyrus smiled.
Not happy. A quiet, crooked thing that said: of course. He should have known. The wishful thinking that had crept over him last night and again this morning—those ridiculous thoughts that maybe she was starting to look at him the way he looked at her—were just that: wishful. Isabella had always been comfortable with Kian. She had no problem leaning into him, tucking herself under his chin, resting like he was furniture built for her. She would joke she wanted him and mean it. Seeing them now—the curve of her against him, the quiet claim of his hand—it felt obvious they would become mates soon. And if they did, Cyrus doubted she would have eyes for anyone else for a long time; even if multiple mates were normal, Isabella did not seem like the type to collect. She rarely talked about that. She mostly talked about Kian.
He said nothing. He looked back to Isabella. She was biting her lip like she was weighing a stupid plan and a worse one. When she noticed he was watching, she smiled again, softer, apology and mischief. It didn’t reach her eyes. He turned away without a word and carried the tray to the nearest table, setting it down with careful grace that makes witnesses ache. The cups chimed once, really. That was all.
He continued to say nothing—quiet as river stone—but one particular man had never learned the art of silence. And no, it wasn’t Luca. Luca had a rainstorm of comments brewing, but Zyran? Zyran was already rolling up his sleeves for trouble with the enthusiasm of a boy who sees a puddle and runs.
He stared at Isabella like he was a cat and she was the only sun patch on the floor. The light at the door caught in his hair and pretended to be his friend. Isabella, feeling his stare burn a hole in her back, swung her head toward him. "What?"
"Get up," Zyran said.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The words came in a command tone so certain it carried an invisible hand with it. He said it like people always obeyed when he said "get up," so she would too. His jaw set, mouth a line; even his posture was a verdict.
Isabella blinked at the audacity. Excuse me? She crossed her arms tighter and leaned back harder against Kian’s chest just to be petty. "No. Why would I get up?"
"Because I don’t like you being there. Get up." Zyran’s face didn’t joke. No lazy smile. No teasing mouth. Only the dangerous lines of once-a-prince, now-a-problem.
He could not believe his eyes. He left for one moment—to make food, to gather shiny nonsense he knew would put that spark in her eye—and came back to find his woman draped over another man’s legs like a ribbon on a spear. An old, ugly urge flared—tear and claw and drag. Jealousy was not his best trait; he’d never been famous for controlling it. He’d been trying because of Isabella. He knew women, knew storms in their eyes and comedy in their sighs. He knew when to push and when to kneel. He was not about to let jealousy write him into the fool’s role in her story.
Cyrus, from the table, stilled the smallest fraction, a single curl of steam crossing his cheek like a second sigh. Luca, in the doorway, made the sound of a man biting his own tongue and missing. Ophelia pressed both palms to her chest and then to her mouth, deciding where worry belonged. Glimora rose two inches on Isabella’s knees, ears flattening, ready to throw legs and consequences to the wind.
Isabella scoffed, turned her face up to Kian. "You see, Kian? This is all your fault."
Kian’s expression remained blank as a holy wall. His eyes warmed, though—an amused spark under river blue—as if to say, How is it my fault this time? His thumb rubbed one thoughtless circle into her wrist, and that absolutely did not help her brain keep straight lines.
"If you hadn’t let this man stay with us, he wouldn’t be here frustrating us every day," Isabella declared, queenly and petty in equal measure.
Zyran recoiled like she’d flicked water at a cat. "First off, I am not ’this man.’ I am your future mate. Address me properly." He lifted his chin, offended elegance. "Secondly, I have only been here one night."
"That’s the point," Isabella shot back. "You’ve only been here one night and you’re already acting like the boss."
"Thirdly," Zyran said, ignoring her with the focus of a professional ignorer, "get up from his lap."
His tone burned. It singed the air; Ophelia flinched on instinct. Luca sucked a stray tooth, then hid behind his hand like that made him invisible. Cyrus turned the nearest bowl a quarter-inch, aligning it with the tray’s edge because some men fight chaos with straight lines. Kian’s arm tightened the slightest bit, a promise wrapped in a warning. Glimora puffed herself into a hostile bread roll.
"And if I do not, brother," Isabella replied, mouth curving, voice sweet and sharp, "what will you do?"
The word landed with the cosh of a brick wrapped in velvet. Luca choked on his own breath. Ophelia’s shoulders shot up to her ears. Cyrus finally looked up from the bowls. Kian’s thumb stopped moving.
Glimora gasped like a tiny flute and slapped a hand over her own mouth, eyes going huge. Even she knew that word was a line. Somewhere in the palace a drum might have fallen silent out of respect. Zyran’s eye twitched so faintly only predatory creatures and exasperated lovers could have caught it.
"Brother," Luca mouthed, delighted and horrified, as if he had just witnessed lightning flirt with a tree. He leaned left toward Ophelia. "She called him—"
Ophelia elbowed him in the ribs with surprising accuracy. "Do not finish that sentence," she whispered, eyes ping-ponging between Zyran’s face and Isabella’s unapologetic smirk. "He is going to explode."
Cyrus exhaled through his nose, slow, setting his palms on either side of the tray like he could steady the entire room if he arranged breakfast correctly. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t need to. The air around him cooled by a degree, the way rivers do when they decide to be deep instead of loud.
Kian did not so much as blink. He looked at Isabella’s profile like a man admiring an unsheathed blade and then set his mouth in that almost-smile that infuriated enemies. His palm reclaimed the rhythm at her wrist, two heartbeats, then stillness, as if reminding her what he wanted without saying it.
Isabella lifted her chin a little higher, proof of life, proof of nerve. "What?" she asked the general room, not sorry at all. "We are all family here." The innocence in her tone could have bought and sold kingdoms.
Zyran’s cheek hollowed where he clenched it. The light in his bright eyes didn’t dim so much as sharpen, turning from lazy shine to the clean edge of a knife. He had been practicing patience all morning like it was a sport. He had not trained for ’brother.’ Somewhere in the hall, a serving lad tripped, caught by pressure in the air; even banners near the window held fast, waiting to see who moved next.
Zyran’s gaze darkened.
She just called him brother. Now that was an offense.