CHAPTER 220: CHAPTER 221: STEP AWAY... PLEASE

"Where did you get jewelry from?" Isabella asked, her voice low, eyes flicking to the golden chain resting against Zyran’s bare, inked chest. The gleam of the moonlight caught on the sharp edges of the black jackal pendant, and for the first time, the smirk on his lips faltered.

Only for a second. Then he threw his head back and laughed, the sound rich and thunderous, echoing through the trees like he owned the entire night.

Isabella blinked, caught off guard. Was it arrogance? Amusement? Or both?

She took a cautious step back, her body tensing like a rabbit unsure whether to run or freeze. Everything about this man screamed danger, but it wasn’t the kind that made her want to run. It was the kind that made her skin tingle, her stomach flutter, her thighs instinctively press together.

And that’s when it happened—again.

Before she could escape, Zyran’s arm shot out, swift and silent like a shadow. He didn’t grab her, didn’t yank her forward. No. He simply brushed her side, just enough pressure to make her stumble, her back softly hitting the rough bark of the tree behind her.

Trapped.

"Why would you want to run, little temptress?" he asked, voice a low drawl, sinful and deep, like warm velvet soaked in wine. His eyes dragged over her with leisurely hunger, thick lashes framing crimson irises that glowed under the moon like liquid fire.

Her breath hitched, chest rising with the weight of his stare.

Isabella raised her chin. "Why are you avoiding the question?" she shot back, trying to mask the unsteady waver in her voice.

Zyran’s smile returned, slower this time. Dangerous.

"I could ask you the same," he said, inching closer. "You didn’t even flinch when you saw the jewelry. You knew what it was. And you didn’t react like someone from this world should."

Her eyes narrowed, heartbeat skipping. He wasn’t just beautiful. He was observant. Sharp.

Too sharp.

He knew.

This man... was worse than a fox. No, a fox still had some sense of honesty. He was a serpent—slick, calculating, gorgeous in the most venomous way. One moment warm and teasing, the next cold and unreadable.

She felt her brain working overtime, connecting dots faster than her mouth could move. He had suspected something during their last meeting. She knew that now. He must have worn the jewelry deliberately. A trap.

And she had walked right into it.

But that only brought more questions. If he wasn’t from this world either... then what the hell was he? He didn’t have the beastmen’s usual stripes, but his aura was overwhelming—powerful, ancient, otherworldly.

Could he be from Earth too?

That didn’t make sense either.

"Who are you?" she whispered, shrinking slightly under his gaze. Her fingers brushed the tree bark behind her, grounding herself. He hadn’t even touched her again, but her body felt hot, pulsing with restless energy.

A flicker of fear danced in her chest, cold and electric. What if he took her away right now—just vanished into the shadows with her like some seductive myth? Would anyone even know how she disappeared? Would anyone care enough to follow?

Of course they would. Yet even if they did, who could stop him?

But that didn’t mean she’d go quietly.

Her spine straightened, chin lifted with defiance that shimmered beneath the fear. She wasn’t some fragile girl to be swept off without a fight. She was Isabella Devereaux. People whispered her name behind closed doors for a reason.

She was too bold to vanish.

Too stunning to forget.

Too dangerous to handle without gloves.

Even if he could overpower her, even if he could melt her bones with a single look—she’d make damn sure he remembered her bite.

Still... if it were him... maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Zyran tilted his head, a half-smile curving on his lips. He bent slightly, bringing his face closer to hers, their mouths only inches apart. His scent hit her like a wave—smoke and spice and something darker, more primal.

"I could ask you the same question," he said, his voice a murmur that kissed her ears. "Who are you, Isabella Devereaux?"

Her throat tightened.

"Speak to me," he added, softer now, but firmer, commanding in a way that made her knees almost give out.

Isabella clenched her fists, pressing them against her thighs. Her breathing was unsteady, and she hated that he could see it. She hated that he was making her react like this. But gods, the way his voice felt like fingertips running over her skin...

Zyran’s gaze flicked down to her mouth, lingering. There was something carnal in the way his eyes tracked the subtle movement of her lips—how they parted slightly, how her teeth caught the soft flesh of her bottom lip without thought. She didn’t even realize she was doing it, not until his jaw tensed slightly and his eyes darkened with something unmistakable.

Then, slowly—excruciatingly slow—his tongue slipped out to wet his lips, tracing the curve with a kind of practiced hunger, as if savoring a taste that wasn’t his yet, but would be.

Her breath caught.

The simple act felt like a promise. No words, no movement—just his mouth reacting to hers, in perfect, unspoken rhythm.

His gaze never left her lips, and it wasn’t just a look—it was a pull, a silent draw, like he was already imagining how she’d taste, how she’d sound, how she’d fall apart under him.

And the worst part?

She couldn’t look away.

He was enjoying this. All of it.

He knew exactly what he was doing—and worse, he knew how effective it was.

What she didn’t know, though, was just how deep his obsession ran.

Zyran had scoured the underworld for her face. Searched in every shadow, whispered her name into magic that cost him more than he would ever admit. He had touched countless women—dancers, priestesses, war maidens—but every time, it was her face that returned to him in the dark. Her voice that echoed when silence fell. Her lips he felt when others kissed him.

None of them had been her.

And now here she was, biting her lip in front of him, vulnerable, beautiful, infuriatingly oblivious to what she was doing to him.

"Step away... please," Isabella said, but her voice betrayed her. Too soft. Too breathy. Too desperate.

Zyran leaned in, just enough to feel the air between them heat like embers.

"I won’t, baby," he whispered, and this time, his voice was different. Dark. Possessive. Hungry.