Isabella didn't move.
Couldn't move.
Her fingers trembled where they rested on his chest, the heat of him burning through her skin like her bones were trying to melt. Osiris hadn't moved either. His lips were still right there—dangerously close. The air between them pulsed.
Tight. Heavy.
Hot.
And he wasn't even touching her that much. Just… lightly. Barely. His hand stayed on her arm, low, near the inside of her elbow. His palm was large, too warm, too steady, too solid. Like the kind of hand that could crush rocks or crush her spine—depending on his mood.
The worst part?
She didn't want to move.
She really didn't.
Her breath stuttered. Her head buzzed. Her lashes fluttered like traitors. She was just… stuck. In heat. In tension. In whatever black hole of hormones and betrayal the gods had tossed her into.
And Osiris—
Osiris just stared.
Lower.
Lower.
His eyes dropped from her eyes to her lips again.
Of course they did.
That stupid look in his eyes—
