"Oh yes, you're right! Cyrus is actually teaching me how to make a pot. You know… those things you use for cooking," Ilyana said, beaming, utterly clueless that she had just stepped into the middle of a silent emotional battlefield.
Isabella's jaw twitched.
Not because she was angry.
No.
She was perfectly fine. She was doing great.
She just happened to flick her teeth with her tongue in a totally harmless, not-at-all passive-aggressive motion as her gaze zeroed in on Ilyana's dainty hand sliding up Cyrus' arm like it belonged there.
And there it was—Cyrus' arm. Warm, pale, defined, being touched by someone who wasn't her.
Isabella's face was blank.
Absolutely. Blank.
Like she was watching a squirrel perform a backflip and trying not to react. "Wow, Cyrus," she said, turning to face him with the slow, icy grace of someone who was about to slap a man with a fish. "I never knew you were a teacher too."
Her voice was sweet.
Too sweet.
