The man's jaw clenched. She could practically hear his ego cracking.
"Bee sap for the gourds," Cyrus replied smoothly. His voice was low, but there was an edge to it. The kind of cold calm that promised violence if needed. His pink eyes glinted like hot coals in a cold fireplace.
"Luca, take it in and bring me a little more soap," Isabella said without even sparing a glance at the man. Her tone was so casual it might as well have been about the weather.
But the message was clear.
You are irrelevant.
And judging by the way the man's fists shook at his side, he got it.
Luca strolled over like he had all the time in the world, grabbing the pot from Cyrus with a nod. No words. No fuss. Just a quiet exchange like two market men swapping spices—except this wasn't a spice deal, it was a boiling pot of tension barely masked under calm movements.
He disappeared into the hut with the pot, the hide curtain fluttering in his wake.
