"Heh, how many times will I tell you that I, Isabella Devereaux, am an—"
"Independent and capable woman," Isabella started, but Kian finished, his voice calm and precise as ever.
She blinked.
Her head snapped toward him in surprise, her mouth still slightly open mid-sentence. "Oh? So you actually listen?"
Kian didn't answer, but the slight quirk of his brow and the very subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth told her everything she needed to know.
Her lips curled into a slow, impressed smile. "Damn. That's sexy." (She's only ever this bold with Kian)
And for just a breath of a second, Kian's gaze flickered.
But before Isabella could tease him more or dissect the almost invisible reaction on his always-composed face—
Footsteps.
Crisp. Hesitant. Not fast enough to be urgent, but not slow enough to be relaxed either. Someone was approaching with guilt all over their soul.
