He had looked at her like she was something fragile. Like she mattered.
A breath caught in her throat.
Was he okay? Was he even alive?
Shaking off the sudden weight in her chest, she quickly dried off and slipped the dress over her head.
It fell lightly over her curves, brushing against her knees. She tied a thin hide belt around her waist, her movements slower, thoughtful now.
Before leaving, she looked down at the water, narrowed her eyes, and whispered, "You didn't win."
Then she turned and walked away, barefoot on the stone path, head held high.
But her eyes still burned a little.
"You're done."
Cyrus' voice was warm, soft, but startling in the quiet. Isabella looked up, water still trickling from the ends of her damp blonde hair. He stood a few paces away, waiting like he had been there for a while—too patiently.
His arms were crossed lightly over his chest, but his posture was relaxed, almost protective. When their eyes met, his lips curved into the kindest smile.
