The soup was warm in her palms.
Comforting.
Smelling like something a semi-competent man would make if supervised by a goddess.
Isabella took another small sip, nodding slowly.
Acceptable.
Barely.
Yet acceptable.
Osiris sat beside the fire outside the tent, watching her like a hopeful dog waiting to be told he was a good boy.
She refused to look at him again.
She had dignity.
Well… she tried.
She lifted the spoon halfway before suddenly freezing.
Her eyelid twitched.
Her nose prickled.
Her throat tickled.
Oh no.
Her entire existence spiraled in one horrifying realization.
This cold was getting worse.
She sniffed.
And sniffed again.
And sneezed, so violently she nearly dropped the bowl.
"Are you exploding," Osiris asked instantly, leaning forward like a panicked mother hen.
"I am not exploding," she snapped, wiping her nose aggressively. "I am sick."
"Oh."
He blinked.
Then added helpfully, "That is worse."
Isabella glared at him.
