The room's curtain rustled.
Cyrus stepped in, carrying the steaming pot of soup… with his bare hands. No fur wrap. No cloth. No tray. Just raw man, muscle, and madness.
Isabella's eye twitched.
He walked like it was no big deal, like he didn't have a boiling cauldron of molten heat in his hands. The steam rolled off the pot in thick waves, making his arms glisten faintly in the moonlight like he was fresh out of a sauna. He looked calm, almost casual, as if he'd just fetched a bouquet of flowers instead of potentially searing third-degree burns into his skin.
He set it down on the floor with a quiet thud.
And that was the final straw.
Isabella was already up like a shot, her chair creaking backward as she stormed toward him with all the silent fury of a woman who'd warned him about this before—multiple times.
"You have GOT to be kidding me," she snapped.
Cyrus blinked, caught off guard.
