Chapter 365: Chapter 365: Valen waiting for me
Glimora stared at Zyran as he finally slid into a seat, even though he’d declared so confidently a moment ago that he’d "rather stand." Her small body curled on Isabella’s lap, but her gaze was sharp, unblinking, too big for her tiny frame. The gleam in her eyes was pure wicked—like she was silently plotting a rebellion with a spoon as her weapon of choice. Her tail flicked once, twice, the way it did when she was deciding whether to pounce or pout.
Luca had already bailed. He made a dramatic excuse about needing air, then carried his plate away so fast you’d think the food was chasing him. Ophelia, realizing quickly she did not have the constitution for lion-sized tension and panther-eyed smirks, clutched her skirt and muttered something about "Valen waiting for me." She bolted like the walls themselves might start yelling.
That left only four. Kian. Cyrus. Zyran. And Isabella, who was clearly the center of gravity, dragging them all into orbit whether she wanted to or not.
Cyrus worked with a steady patience, arranging each plate like it was part of a sacred ritual. He set the bowls neatly, smoothing their edges against the wooden table as if perfection alone could make the meal taste better. His hands were big, but his movements were careful, almost tender. When he scooped the steaming rice, he didn’t just drop it in—he placed it, letting the grains settle softly, as though Isabella’s plate needed respect as much as food. Every small motion carried weight, like he wasn’t just serving breakfast—he was serving her happiness, piece by piece.
The food Cyrus placed down made Isabella’s breath hitch. Her eyes widened until they shimmered like polished glass, her lips parted, and she clasped her hands together as if she’d just seen the gates of paradise swing open.
"Rice!" Isabella squealed, voice bursting with a mix of disbelief and glee. Her body nearly pitched forward toward the tray before she caught herself.
The set in front of her looked magnificent, steam curling in pale ribbons, grains shining like tiny pearls in the morning light. For a heartbeat, she thought her eyes might sting with tears. Tears, over food. But oh, this wasn’t just food. This was home.
When Cyrus had been setting the table earlier, she hadn’t thought much about it. The aroma had been heavenly, yes, but Isabella thought it would be the usual feast—something rich, something meaty, something filling but expected. But she had been so, so wrong. The steam rising now wasn’t just steam; it was temptation in visible form. She imagined tossing away all her restraint, all her composure, and diving face-first into the pot like a savage. But no—no, she was Isabella. She would sit like a queen and not squeal again.
Still, her eyes betrayed her. Her mouth watered so fiercely she was certain the men could hear it. She folded her arms on the table with forced elegance, but her fingers tapped impatient rhythms against her wrist.
Zyran smirked across from her, lounging in his chair like a predator who’d just baited a trap. He had expected this. Oh, he’d been right. If he wanted Isabella to soften toward him, he had to aim lower than her heart and higher than her pride—straight for her stomach.
He knew the beast world was hopelessly repetitive. Meat. Meat. More meat. Sometimes roasted, sometimes raw, sometimes dried. Every city suffered the same monotony. But Isabella craved difference. She craved little human luxuries that no one else here could even name. That was where he would strike. If he had to drag every strange delicacy from the underworld, he would do it, just to see her eyes light up like this.
Kian, meanwhile, was studying the table with a deepening frown. His arm draped loosely behind Isabella’s chair, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. He was starting to notice a pattern. And he did not like it.
Every time Zyran produced something new, something rare, Isabella already knew what it was. Not just knew—it was like she remembered it. Like the world Zyran claimed to come from and the world Isabella had fallen from were cousins. And that... that gnawed at him.
What gnawed even harder was the effect. Zyran was clever, he’d give him that. He didn’t flood her with affection, he fed her happiness in small, undeniable doses. Rice today. Something else tomorrow. Before long, she’d be so comfortable she wouldn’t even realize who was making her comfortable.
The thought was sour in Kian’s chest. He wanted Isabella happy. He always wanted that. But why did it have to be Zyran putting that particular smile on her face?
Cyrus moved with quiet precision, ladling grains into shallow bowls. His hands were steady, his movements almost ceremonial. But when Isabella’s gasp had broken the air—when her voice rang bright with joy—he had glanced up and felt it ripple through him. He was happy just because she was happy. That simple. That dangerous.
He hadn’t trusted the rice at first. When Zyran presented it, Cyrus had eyed it like it was a snake in disguise. He had cooked it anyway, cautiously, keeping it simple. Bland. He’d even tasted it himself before deciding it was safe. Nothing odd, no tricks. Just plain. But if plain food could make Isabella glow like this, then maybe plain food was holy.
He reached for the last dish, lifting a small bowl carefully. The air thickened with sugar and cream.
Isabella’s head snapped toward it, eyes locking on the source of the sweet, almost intoxicating scent that had been teasing her all morning. Coconut buttermilk. The rich perfume wrapped around her senses, a honeyed promise. Her hands twitched against her thighs. She nearly leaned forward the way Glimora leaned when she spotted prey.
The rice was forgotten. Her gaze tracked the bowl like a hawk, lips parting, chest rising with a sharp breath. She could already imagine the taste sliding across her tongue, that sweetness lingering against her teeth. Her whole body betrayed her. She swallowed hard, eyes shining, locked completely on the bowl Cyrus carried.
And everyone noticed.