The air between them thickened.
Isabella's fingers still tangled in Kian's short, white hair, her nails lightly grazing his scalp as she absentmindedly rubbed the strands between her fingertips.
Kian remained perfectly still.
Not because he was indifferent.
No—because something was happening. Something he did not like.
His pulse was too loud, his breath too deep, and every slight movement she made—every single accidental brush of her skin against his scalp—sent something primal curling deep inside him.
Her scent—sweet, warm, maddening—wrapped around him like a vice.
And then, she shifted closer.
So close.
Kian could feel her breath ghosting against his throat.
The way her chest nearly—nearly—pressed against him.
Isabella, still blissfully oblivious to the dangerous tension, continued murmuring, her voice soft, hypnotic, addictive.
