Cyrus's breathing was uneven, broken, his entire body trembling as he stared up at her. Then—slowly, almost as if his strength had left him entirely—he reached forward. His hands found her legs, clutching at them like she was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
"Please," he whispered, voice hoarse. "Please, Isabella, don't say that. Don't do that. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
His words cracked halfway through, raw and desperate, the kind of plea that tore through pride and left only pain behind. He bowed his head, pressing his forehead against her knees as if seeking forgiveness he knew he didn't deserve.
"I didn't mean for any of this to happen," he said again, his voice trembling. "I didn't know—gods, I didn't know what I was doing. I thought you wanted—" His throat closed, and his words died into a broken gasp.
