Isabella turned toward the sound, already knowing who it was. No footsteps she'd ever heard had the gall to sound that confident. Steady. Cold. Regal.
And there he was. Kian.
He stepped into view like the moon had personally lit his path, the last threads of sunlight glinting off his toned chest, smooth and sculpted like it had been carved with care by some ancient forest god. His bare torso gleamed with a faint sheen of sweat from the heat of the day, every defined line of muscle visible beneath his perfect looking skin. His abs—by the ancestors—were sharp enough to cut through the clay walls behind her hut. His white hair, short and tousled from his journey, caught the light like fresh snow, only adding to the divine-in-the-wrong-way thing he had going.
And of course, that icy air around him was ever-present, wrapping around his form like an invisible mantle of authority. Most people would buckle under the pressure. But not Isabella. Oh no, not her.
