Chapter 363: Chapter 363: Fine. Let’s see how long this lasts
Zyran’s jealousy hit the doorway five steps before he did. He didn’t even bother with a smile; he planted himself just inside the frame like a problem that had learned to stand upright. "Isabella, get up," he said, voice smooth as a blade pulled slow from a sheath.
Isabella didn’t even flinch. She sank deeper into Kian’s lap on purpose, like a petty cat choosing its favorite cushion. "No," she said, soft and lethal. "Why would I do that, brother? I think this is the perfect place for me."
A muscle jumped in Zyran’s jaw. "What do you mean by that?"
She gave him a look so innocent it needed to be arrested. "Why do you care?"
"Because you are mine," he said, and the room lost one full degree of temperature.
Behind her, Kian’s hand tightened at her waist—barely, but enough that she felt it echo in her ribs. A warning. A claim. A don’t make me. Isabella felt the press, the heat of his palm branding through fabric, the way his breath slowed like a big animal deciding not to charge—yet. She didn’t turn to look at him. She kept her eyes on Zyran and said, perfectly clear, "I am not yours, Zyran. And there is nothing you can do about it."
Silence skimmed the floor like oil. Ophelia and Luca stood off to the side, side by side without meaning to, eyes ping-ponging between lion, woman, and troublemaker. The two of them wore the exact same expression: we should not be in this room. Ophelia’s fingers twisted in her skirt; she was already praying in her head for Valen to appear like a polite storm and escort her out—please, she wanted to go be safe with her man and eat in peace and love everyone from a distance. She was not built for this level of drama. Not at breakfast. Not ever. Luca, on the other hand, wanted to disappear and also stay forever to see how it ended. His face said I am loyal; his neck said I am nosy.
Zyran’s gaze dropped to the problem that was actually killing him: Isabella was still on Kian’s lap. She hadn’t budged an inch. His pupils pinched; his eyes glowed in that way only predators and bad decisions can glow—too subtle to catch unless you were hunting for it. His fangs prickled; his tongue pressed to his teeth like it wanted to test their edge. "I am not going to tell you again, Isabella," he said, voice lower, warmer, worse. "Get up."
"And if I don’t?" Isabella asked, tone bright, like she was picking a pastry.
"You won’t like it," he said.
She smiled with all her teeth. "I would love to see you try. Come get me from my spot."
That did it. The air wavered. Zyran’s posture slanted forward by a fraction; Kian’s arm tightened by the same fraction; even the light from the window seemed to brace itself against the wall. Glimora on Isabella’s thighs rose onto her legs, tail puffing like a dandelion about to commit a crime. Ophelia inhaled a gasp and swallowed it so fast she choked. Luca planted one foot behind him as if he might need to tackle someone twice his rank and then pray for forgiveness.
Cyrus, who had been quietly arranging bowls at the side table this entire time like a monk aligning the stars, paused mid-motion. He set the last cup down with a click you could hear across a battlefield. Then he turned, posture easy, voice even. "The food is ready," he said, calm as river water. "I would not like for it to get cold."
Every head in the room swung toward him like he’d cast a spell. He hadn’t. That wasn’t about food. Everyone knew. The space he made with those two lines was a clean path back from the cliff’s edge. Take it, or don’t. Cyrus simply offered it and held their eyes like a man promising nothing but sanity.
Zyran stared at him for one long beat, then dragged a hand through his hair, tipping his head back like he was recalibrating his temper with oxygen. He blew out a breath through his nose. Fine, his body said. For now. Out loud, to no one in particular, to absolutely everyone, he muttered under his breath, "Fine. Let’s see how long this lasts." No one heard him. He made sure of it. The words claimed a private corner of the room and folded there like a knife.
Ophelia clapped her hands once, too brightly. "We should help arrange the table for eating," she announced, which in her language meant I refuse to die today. "Right, Luca?"
"Absolutely," Luca agreed with the terrifying eagerness of a man thrilled to be given a job that wasn’t catching flying knives. They both rushed to Cyrus’s side, scooping up bowls and laying them out with military speed. Ophelia moved like a busy sunbeam, standing between people who might decide to explode; Luca stacked cups, unstacked them, restacked them with perfect symmetry because order is soothing when your king is a toaster set to murder.
Zyran flicked his cuffs straight, gathered the tatters of his pride like a cape, and sauntered two steps inward as if nothing in his chest was trying to punch its way out. He reached into a pouch and set down a small bundle—wrapped leaves, the kind that hid bright, sweet things. He didn’t look at Isabella. He absolutely looked at Isabella. He looked at the line of Kian’s forearm around her waist and then at the way her shoulders lifted when she breathed. He rolled his tongue against his teeth once, and the invisible sparks in his eyes dimmed back to wicked shine.
Kian didn’t move. Not a muscle. His chin hovered just above Isabella’s crown; the angle of his body said anchor, not prison. Still, his thumb resumed its lazy stroke at her waist, like a heartbeat he could write. Isabella felt the message—stay—and the counter-message in her own fingers—make me. She refused to look back at him; she stared stubbornly at the table like bowls had never been so interesting in the history of bowls.
Cyrus slid a plate in front of her anyway, unbothered by the open fire of the room. He didn’t ask anyone to sit. He just stood there being the kind of calm people either love or want to throw a chair at. Ophelia caught his eye and softened; Luca gave him a military nod like thanks for sticking your hand into the lion’s mouth so the rest of us don’t have to.
"Luca, left side," Ophelia whispered, and they swapped places without thinking, creating a human (and cinnamon-bun) barrier between Zyran and Kian that was as subtle as a hedge and twice as determined. Zyran lifted a brow at the maneuver, amused despite himself. He leaned one shoulder against the wall and crossed his ankles, the universal pose for I’m relaxed that only relaxed people believe.
Isabella’s chin tipped up another millimeter. "Brother," she said lightly, "since you care so much where I sit, you can sit—over there." She pointed with her eyes, which was rude and excellent.
Zyran’s smile was all teeth. "I’ll stand."
"Great," she chirped, deadly sweet.
Kian’s mouth tilted, infinitesimal. Luca saw it and pretended he didn’t, for safety. Ophelia’s hands shook just enough that a flower slipped from its dish; Cyrus caught it before it fell, set it back like the world had never stuttered.
Cutlery chimed. Steam curled. The room rearranged itself around the shape of restraint. People breathed again.
While everyone was busy trying to diffuse the tension in the room, nobody noticed that Glimora was no longer glaring at Zyran, but instead she was now smiling. And no she wasn’t giving a cutesy little smile that makes your heart melt. She was giving that smile that makes every hair on one’s body stand up. It was really crazy. And then she licked
her fur on her legs. Yep, that is how you should put it. While still smiling.