"But first, let me transfer some strength to you," Cyrus said gently, his voice low like he didn't want to disturb the quiet around them.
Isabella blinked at him, eyes wide. Her mouth hung open for a second as she processed what he'd just said.
She so could not believe this man. Of all the things she expected to hear, that wasn't even on the list.
Here she was, practically dragging her bones together, barely holding herself upright, expressing genuine concern that he might drain himself with too much magic—and what did this sweet, maddening, dangerously kind man suggest?
Giving her more of his strength? Using more of his power on her? She stared at him like he had just offered to chop off his own arm and hand it to her with a smile.
What kind of logic did this man operate on? Did he think she was a fragile egg? A glass petal? A helpless flower in need of watering? Her eye twitched.
