"Okay, now you're really starting to sound like Zyran," Isabella groaned, tipping the bowl to test its warmth. The steam kissed her wrist. "You're being ridiculous."
"I'm being serious." He didn't blink. "To you, perhaps it is kindness. To him, it may be something else."
Her breath caught. The words lodged somewhere inconvenient—between heart and pride. "Why are you speaking like you're jealous, Kian?"
"I am jealous, Isabella," he said simply. No performance. No roar. Just a truth laid down like a blade. "I don't like the thought of sharing my woman."
Color flooded her cheeks. She looked down so fast the ends of her hair brushed his forearm. "Stop it. Who is your woman?"
"You are," he said.
She couldn't fight a smile, so she hid it in the bowl. She lifted the spoon, dipped, and tasted. Bliss bloomed behind her teeth. "Wow," she breathed, eyes brightening. "Kian, it tastes so good."
