CHAPTER 337: CHAPTER 337: IT’S TOO EARLY FOR YOUR DRAMA

The moment Zyran stepped into the room and his gaze landed on Isabella, the entire world seemed to halt. His red eyes widened, drinking her in like he’d just stumbled into paradise itself.

Her hair—messy, tangled from sleep—looked like spun sunlight, every strand catching the morning glow in a way that seemed too intentional to be accidental. Zyran’s lips parted slightly. Messy? No. It wasn’t messy. It was divine chaos. The kind of chaos sculptors would carve into marble and poets would bleed ink over.

Her eyes flickered toward him, groggy but sharp, like a pair of blades disguised as the brightest jewels. They were still heavy with sleep, yet somehow sparkling, mischievous, and far too pretty for the early hour.

And then her lips. Those soft, flushed lips, still carrying the ghost of dreams. Zyran swallowed hard. Gods, the things he could do to those lips—

A strangled sound left his throat before he could stop it.

He always knew Isabella was pretty, of course. He wasn’t blind. But this? This wasn’t mere beauty. This was something otherworldly. She looked like temptation wrapped in morning light, the kind of vision that made men renounce kingdoms and crawl willingly to their knees.

Zyran—the god who’d turned away from countless goddesses at his door, the god who never bowed—felt the insane urge to throw himself at her feet, just because she’d yawned and rubbed her eyes like a sleepy child.

And Isabella knew. Oh, she knew.

She stiffened, her cheeks blazing pink as she felt his gaze burn holes into her. Her heart slammed against her ribs. What the hell was wrong with him? Why was he staring at her like that—like she was the only thing alive in the world?

Panic shot through her veins. She glanced at Cyrus like a drowning woman begging for a lifeboat. Her eyes practically screamed: Do something! Please, I’m dying here!

Cyrus, of course, being Cyrus, didn’t exactly rush to her rescue. He just let out a long-suffering sigh, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. His broad shoulders slumped, the weight of Zyran’s chaos dragging on him like it always did. His expression all but said: Why do I put up with this idiot?

Meanwhile Isabella’s face was on fire. She tugged at the edge of her blanket, clutching it tighter around herself. She had never felt so naked in her life, and she hated that the source of her embarrassment was Zyran of all people.

Her lips parted as though to say something, but the only thing that came out was breathy and exasperated.

"What do you fucking want? It’s too early for your drama."

Her voice wavered with frustration, but the faint tremor gave her away. She hated how vulnerable she sounded.

Zyran’s chest rose and fell, as though he were struggling for breath. And then, with all the weight of a prophet delivering a divine message, his voice came out—low, reverent, thick with emotion Isabella had no idea he was capable of.

"By the jackals of Duat..." he whispered, eyes locked on her like he’d been enchanted. "Isabella, you steal the breath from my chest as though even I am mortal."

The room went dead silent.

Isabella blinked once. Twice. Her brain completely short-circuited. What the hell was she supposed to do with that line?

Her heart was racing, her face flaming, but her pride kicked in, claws out, desperate not to let him win this little battle of flattery.

"What?" she croaked, forcing her features into a scowl even though her blush betrayed her. Her lips twisted into disgust, the best mask she could manage. "What did you just say?"

Isabella’s single, flat "What?" hung in the air like a dagger.

But Zyran—being Zyran—didn’t back down. His lips curved into that infuriating smirk, the one that said he was enjoying every second of her discomfort. He even had the audacity to take a step closer, hand pressed dramatically over his heart like he’d been struck by Cupid himself.

"Your beauty blinds me, Isabella. Every breath you take is poetry, every blink a hymn. How do you expect me to breathe, to exist, when you walk this earth looking like that?"

Isabella’s jaw dropped. "Are you serious right now?"

Zyran raised a finger, eyes sparkling with mischief. "No, really. The goddesses of old must be rolling in their graves, jealous that you outshine them without even trying. Look at you—hair a golden storm, eyes like twin heavens, lips—"

"Don’t you dare finish that sentence!" Isabella snapped, pointing at him with the kind of authority that should’ve sent him packing. But of course, it didn’t.

"Oh, but it must be said," Zyran crooned, leaning lazily against the doorframe as though this was his stage. "Your lips, Isabella, could start wars. Nations would fall for the chance to touch them. If Helen of Troy launched a thousand ships, you—"

"SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP!" Isabella exploded, cheeks practically glowing red. She yanked her blanket up higher, as if it were armor, glaring at him with enough fire to incinerate a lesser man. "God, you’re insufferable! What do you even want from me? Why are you here at this hour? Leave me the hell alone already—I’m TIRED of you!"

Her voice cracked halfway through the tirade, not out of weakness, but out of sheer, flustered fury. She was so overwhelmed with embarrassment she could practically feel her soul trying to leave her body.

Zyran froze for half a heartbeat, then tilted his head, a spark of something different in his expression. Not just mischief this time—something sharper, heavier. His smirk softened into something almost... genuine.

"I want you."

The words dropped into the silence like a stone into still water, sending ripples through the room.

Isabella’s heart stuttered. Her breath caught.

And Cyrus?

Cyrus, standing off to the side with his arms crossed, had been watching this entire circus with the kind of patience only saints or serpents could master. His eyes narrowed the moment the words left Zyran’s mouth. His jaw tightened, his chest rising slowly as though holding back the hiss he refused to give voice to.

For once, he wasn’t sighing at Zyran’s antics. For once, his gaze wasn’t indifferent. It was sharp, cold, protective.

And Isabella, caught between the two men, had no idea whether to scream again, laugh hysterically, or throw herself back under her blankets and never come out.