Cyrus' frown deepened further, as if her question only confirmed his suspicions. "You're still very weak. I cannot let you walk around."
Isabella's breath caught, the words catching her off guard. His tone wasn't harsh, but there was something in it—something genuine. He was concerned.
He was concerned for her. The thought lingered in her mind, unfamiliar and unsettling. She hadn't expected that from him. Her heart fluttered at that.
But then, just as quickly, the irritation flared again. How dare he act as if he could tell her what to do? She wasn't some fragile thing that needed babysitting.
She had her own life to lead, her own decisions to make. No one—no one—was going to scold her.
She inhaled sharply, ready to snap back at him, but then she froze. There was a shift in her thoughts, a quiet flicker that made her pause.
Why do I care?
