Isabella did not know what to do as she stared from one man to another, her spoon hovering in the air like it was caught in traffic. Her eyes bounced left, right, left again, like she was watching a very boring tennis match but with way scarier players.
Kian's face was a blank wall—expressionless, carved from stone, the kind of face that made men trip over themselves apologizing just for existing. His cold gaze could crush bones, and right now, it was aimed directly at Cyrus.
But Cyrus wasn't "any man," was he? No, no. He sat there calm, pink eyes soft but unshaken, like a river that refused to move even when the mountain leaned on it. He stared back, not with heat, not with ice, but with quiet strength that only annoyed Kian further.
And the prize? Not treasure. Not victory. Not even Isabella's kiss. No, the prize was a little dish of foraged brined berries.
