The moment Zyran finally pulled back, Isabella's breath hitched.
She didn't move.
She just stood there, arms slack at her sides, eyes still locked on his, like her body hadn't caught up to her brain. Her heart thundered violently in her chest, pounding in her ears like drums of war. She was very much still in a haze—and unfortunately, so was Zyran. Neither of them moved. Neither of them wanted to.
And that, dear heavens, was her first mistake.
Because while everyone else was still under the spell… one person was not anymore
"Isabella?"
The sound of her name was sharp and clean—cutting straight through the air like a thrown spear.
Her head jerked to the side so fast, she nearly sprained her own neck.
Her eyes landed directly on Kian, who stood a few steps away, towering, statuesque, and radiating frost. His arms were folded, his expression blank—but that tone? That one word held enough suppressed emotion to make her stomach drop to her toes.
Isabella panicked.
