The walk was hell.
Not physical hell—Isabella's legs were fine, her breathing was fine, her pace sharp and fierce like a woman who'd just remembered she was the main character.
No, the hell was Osiris.
Osiris, walking one long-legged stride behind her.
Osiris, breathing like a calm, unbothered forest spirit.
Osiris, existing.
And Isabella, fuming.
Her entire aura was crackling like she'd swallowed lava and was trying very hard not to spit it out. She kept her chin high, hair swaying behind her like a pissed-off banner of war, Glimora tucked against her chest like an emotional support weapon.
Osiris watched her back for a moment.
Her stiff shoulders.
Her clenched jaw.
Her aggressively forward walking speed.
He blinked.
"…Are you still mad at me?"
Isabella didn't answer.
Not even a flinch.
She was in her "silent treatment but make it divine punishment" mode.
"Isabella?" he tried again.
Silence.
