He started coughing—loud, ragged coughs that scraped out of his throat like broken glass. The sound was so sharp, so utterly miserable, that even Kian's ever-stoic expression cracked. His eyes widened the tiniest fraction, a silent acknowledgment of just how bad whatever had entered Zyran's mouth must have been.
And Isabella? She lost it.
The moment the first wheeze escaped Zyran's lips, she burst into laughter. Not just any laugh, either—this was the kind that bent your stomach, the kind that stole your breath, the kind that sent tears racing down your cheeks. She clutched her side, doubled over in Kian's lap, shaking so hard her hair spilled around her face like a curtain of blonde silk.
Kian's arms tightened almost instinctively, steadying her as she shook with laughter. Her small frame rocked against him, her golden hair brushing against his chest, spilling over his arm like sunlight caught in his grasp.
