"What is it?" Isabella asked shamelessly, beaming up at Kian like the chaotic menace she was. Her entire face was glowing—eyes bright, lips curled in a self-satisfied smirk, chin tilted just enough to make it clear she knew she looked good and knew he was looking.
And gods, was he looking.
But he didn't reply.
Kian just stared. Not at her eyes. Not at her hair. Not even at her ridiculous smirk. No—this man, this emotionally constipated, ice-faced king, had the nerve to be staring directly at her lips.
Intently.
Like they were the last thing he'd ever see.
It wasn't a glance. It wasn't innocent.
This was full-on, soul-leaving-body, I'm-doing-sinful-things-in-my-head kind of staring.
His eyes didn't twitch. His expression didn't change. But the heat behind that gaze was real. It crept over her like fire through dry grass—slow, unstoppable, and very, very warm.
