The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 676: What are dumplings?

So she fed him another spoonful and muttered, "That was too smooth. I don’t trust you."

Kian’s mouth moved faintly. "You fed me anyway."

"Well," Isabella said with dignity, "that is because I’m kind."

He looked at her for one quiet second, then said, "You are."

That only made her cheeks warmer again.

As she continued feeding him, the mood in the room turned softer and softer. He ate slowly, more because he wanted to stay there with her than because the soup required caution, and she kept fussing over the temperature, whether he had enough meat, whether he was actually tasting it properly, and whether he was pretending to be more tired than he was just to make her baby him.

At one point, after swallowing another spoonful, Kian lifted his hand and placed it over hers on the bowl.

Then he slid it away from the bowl entirely and brought her hand to his chest.

Isabella blinked.

"What are you doing?"

"Keeping it," he said simply.

She laughed. "Keeping what?"

"This."

Then he pressed her palm more firmly against his chest.

The beat beneath her hand was steady, but strong, and for one brief second, Isabella felt strangely quiet inside. His hand covered hers there, warm and heavy, and the look in his eyes made it very clear that he was not only talking about her hand.

He was talking about all of it.

Her care.

Her presence.

This moment.

Maybe even her.

That realization made her heart feel very full.

So instead of teasing him immediately, she let her hand stay there and asked softly, "Are you trying to be sweet on purpose?"

Kian answered after a pause, "I don’t know how to do it on purpose."

The honesty of that sentence nearly destroyed her.

Because yes.

That was exactly him.

He was not polished about tenderness. He was not practiced in soft moments. Everything in him that reached toward her felt serious because it came from somewhere deep and difficult and very real.

Isabella’s voice softened again without her meaning it to. "Then you’re doing very well."

Kian looked at her for such a long moment that she almost forgot to breathe.

Then he leaned closer and kissed her forehead.

After that, he lowered one hand to her stomach again.

This time he rubbed over it very slowly, tracing little patterns there with the pads of his fingers as if greeting the babies in his own silent way. The movement was careful, almost reverent, and there was something so tender in his face while doing it that Isabella’s chest ached a little.

His hand was big enough to cover so much of her at once, and the warmth of it sank right through the fabric.

He kept drawing those small circles and lines absentmindedly, as if he did not even realize he was doing it anymore.

Isabella watched him and felt that same dangerous softness fill her again.

"You really are clingy today," she murmured.

Kian did not deny it.

Instead, he looked at her stomach for a moment longer and said quietly, "You are carrying too much, and I still keep leaving you alone while I work. I don’t like it."

That confession made her eyes soften even further.

So she took the bowl down, set it aside, and then lifted both hands to his face, holding it gently between her palms.

"You’re not leaving me alone," she said. "You’re carrying too much too."

For one second, Kian closed his eyes.

Because that was the problem with her.

She saw too much.

And once she saw, she always wanted to comfort it.

No wonder his heart had become helpless.

After a while, Isabella glanced around the room and then back at him. "Why don’t you sleep in today? The village will survive one day without you marching around glaring at everyone."

Kian opened his eyes again and looked at her.

"I want you to stay here then."

That answer came so quickly that Isabella almost laughed.

So this was really happening.

He was truly this clingy today.

She smiled and shook her head. "No. You all are always making me stay behind, and I’m tired of sitting around. I want to do something today. I want to cook."

Kian’s expression shifted slightly. "Cook what?"

"Dumplings," Isabella said at once, and immediately her whole face brightened because once food became the subject, she naturally had a lot to say.

Kian frowned a little. "What are dumplings?"

That question made Isabella sit up straighter.

Then she began explaining with great seriousness and a shocking amount of passion.

"They’re made with flour on the outside, and inside there’s filling, usually meat and vegetables and seasonings, and when they’re done properly they are juicy and soft and warm and so good that if you eat them in winter, you’ll feel like forgiving the world a little. Sometimes you can steam them, sometimes boil them, and if you pan-fry them right, the bottom becomes golden and a little crisp, but the inside stays tender, and when you bite into one, all the flavor comes out at once and it’s just... so good."

The more she spoke, the more animated she became.

Her hands moved while she described it.

Her eyes lit up.

Her mouth kept going and going, painting the whole thing with such love that Kian found himself staring at her more than listening to the details.

Not because the food sounded uninteresting.

Actually, it sounded very interesting.

But because she sounded like that.

Alive.

Warm.

So easy in this.

He watched her talk about dumplings as though she were remembering something far away and beloved at once.

Then, after she had gone on long enough to describe texture, filling, warmth, and the exact emotional comfort a proper dumpling could bring to a cold day, Kian quietly said, "Isabella."

She stopped and blinked at him. "Yes?"

Her voice still carried all that innocent enthusiasm.

That made what he said next feel even sharper.

"You’re not from this world, are you?"

And at once, Isabella’s breath caught in her throat.