"I told you already—there is no soup for you. You're not welcome here."
Isabella's head snapped toward Zyran so fast you'd think her neck was auditioning for a fight scene. Her voice was sharp enough to slice through bone.
She was so sick of him. Sick of the smug tilt of his mouth, sick of the glint in his eyes that said he thought he knew something she didn't, sick of the way he stood there like he was the main character in a story she never agreed to be part of.
How dare he ruin her moment? And not just ruin it—slither into it, like an uninvited snake deciding to make itself comfortable in the middle of a sun-warmed rock. Ugh. Zyran was something else.
"But there's soup for him?" Zyran asked, pointing in Kian's direction like the man had just committed a felony. His voice dripped disbelief, outrage, and maybe a little wounded pride. "How is it you'll feed him but not me?"
