The glowing hut hummed softly, the faint blue light from the moss giving everything a dreamy, underwater shimmer.
The fire crackled low beside Isabella's cooking pit. The stone walls kept the mountain wind out, but she still felt a chill run down her spine.
Not from the cold.
From Osiris.
Because the bird-brain had just said:
"Let me wash it for you."
Her pot.
HER pot.
The pot she cooked with.
The pot she guarded like her firstborn.
The pot this phoenix idiot never touched unless he was smelling food.
Isabella stared at him with the expression of someone who had just watched a wild wolf politely fold laundry.
"What are you planning?" she asked slowly.
Her voice wasn't soft.
It was suspicious.
Sharp.
Accusing.
Osiris blinked at her, hands still wrapped around the pot. "I am not planning anything."
"Liar."
"I just realized," he tried again, ignoring her, "that since you are pregnant, it would not be manly of me to leave you to work."
Silence.
