Cyrus froze at her words.
It was like the air in the room thinned in an instant. His brain stuttered, replaying them over and over until they scraped against his skull.
How could she think that? How could she think he didn't care?
His chest tightened—no, clenched—like someone had reached in and given his heart a cruel, deliberate twist. The sudden ache made it hard to breathe, and before he could stop himself, he stepped forward.
"You're right," he blurted, the words tumbling out too fast, almost tripping over each other in their rush to reach her. His voice was firm, but it trembled at the edges. "You're right, I was wrong. I shouldn't have carried the pot with my bare hands. I wasn't thinking—"
Isabella's head turned away sharply, her chin tilting upward in that impossibly regal way—like a queen dismissing a peasant—that always made him feel two inches tall.
