Chapter 368: Chapter 368: You should feed her now that she’s warming up to you
To their surprise Glimora made herself comfortable on Zyran’s shoulder. She did not look like she was about to scratch his eyes out or spit in his face. She simply settled there, tiny legs planted like hooks, tail coiled around the back of his neck like a white scarf that had opinions.
Even Zyran, who had been braced for teeth, frowned when he received nothing. No bite. No swipe. No tiny tyrant tantrum. Just weight. Warmth. Presence. The beast version of "I live here now." Everyone knew it, though.
Isabella stared in shock. Her spoon hovered, rice dripping back into the bowl one grain at a time. She was so confused. Was this not the same Glimora that had been sending Zyran death glares since sunrise? Why was she suddenly perched on his shoulder like she loved him more than the sun?
If not for one thing, Isabella might have believed it. She might have believed Glimora had forgiven Zyran and now adored him. But she did not, because she knew Glimora. That fluffball could not be trusted so easily. Cute, yes. Loyal, yes. Forgiving? Never in the first round.
Isabella managed to catch Glimora’s eyes. Blue to blue. For a heartbeat the room fell away. Glimora’s look said, very clearly: Trust me, Mama. A second message curled in the corner: Watch.
Isabella breathed out, set her spoon down, and decided to do the hardest thing she ever did around food—keep quiet. She continued eating like nothing was strange. Everyone watched her for a cue. When Isabella did not shout or scold, the others returned to their bowls as well.
Well, only Kian and Cyrus started eating. Zyran sat there stiff, confused, deeply uncomfortable. Not because he was scared—fine, maybe a little scared—but because Glimora kept staring at him. Those big bright eyes were way too shiny way too close. Having judgment sit on your shoulder was a new flavor of torture.
She stared. And stared. And when he could not take it anymore, he spoke, jaw tight. "What is it?" he asked Glimora, annoyed.
Glimora tipped her chin at the food. A tiny nod.
"You want me to feed you?" Zyran asked, baffled, looking at her with open disdain.
And Glimora, as little as she was, had the audacity to lift one brow and motion again with her head like, Yes, you. Feed me. What about it?
Zyran scoffed. He already did not like this small demon. The fact he was even letting the beast stay on his shoulder was a miracle. And now she wanted to command him? Him, a prince? Ha. He had never been insulted this much in his life. Even gods treated him better, than he has ever been treated in this palace.
What was he doing up here anyway? In the underworld they respected him, praised him, sometimes would have licked his feet if he let them. Here he was a snack stand with legs.
Isabella had been pretending not to watch, but she could not help it. Zyran’s face was a masterpiece—disgust, confusion, wounded pride—all layered like a bad cake. She bit back a laugh so hard her shoulders shook. Maybe she really had to trust Glimora on this one after all.
She cleared her throat and the room turned toward her. "You should feed her now that she’s warming up to you," Isabella said, locking her blue eyes with Zyran’s red ones.
Zyran froze. His brows pulled together. He was a little happy, actually—Isabella had finally spoken to him without him dragging attention onto himself. But he was also wary. Was she not supposed to be telling Glimora to get down and come back to her? Why was he the chair? Why was he the waiter?
Then again, who was he to turn his Isabella down? If feeding the little demon made Isabella pleased with him, he would feed her. He would feed a mountain if he had to.
He rolled his shoulders once to settle her and reached for a flat wooden spoon. The table’s light fell across his hands—hands that usually held blades or trouble—and now they were delivering tiny bites like he had trained for this his whole life. The first morsel went up, paused at the tip of Glimora’s nose. She sniffed with suspicion, then chomped like a queen giving a new chef a chance. Her ears twitched. Approval. Barely.
"See?" Isabella murmured, trying not to smile. "She likes you when you’re useful."
Zyran: ಥ_ಥ
"Useful," Zyran repeated, dead inside. "Wonderful." he said with a stiff smile.
Glimora tapped his jaw with one hand —faster. He obeyed. Bite after bite. When he tried to set a rhythm, she changed it, making him work for every pleased blink. He adjusted his grip on the bowl; she leaned left to keep her balance; he leaned right so she would not slip. The little beast kept him busy like a fussy empress.
Cyrus hid a laugh in his cup. Kian did not hide anything; his mouth almost smiled and then disciplined itself back into a line. The room had the oddest peace: spoons, small clinks, the soft sound of breath and cloth and the steady scrape of Zyran’s patience thinning in ribbons.
Isabella floated between bites and feelings. The rice soothed her nerves; the meat warmed her mood; the sight of Zyran being bossed by six inches of fluff did things to her soul she could not name. She sat straighter when Kian nudged another slice onto her plate, softer when Cyrus slipped a few greens into the corner so the flavors would blend. Their hands did not bump now; somehow they had found a rhythm around her, a quiet dance of let me and after you.
Glimora finished one bowl and peered inside like a tax officer. Zyran showed her the empty bottom. She sniffed, then placed both hands on his chest and climbed an inch as if to rank up. "No," he told her, scandalized by how natural the word sounded. "We are not climbing me."