Zyran cocked his head, one black strand of hair slipping into his face as he arched a brow. His grin was far too smug for this early in the morning, the kind of grin that made Isabella want to throw a shoe at him. "What? Why are you staring at me like that?" His voice dripped with mock innocence, as if Cyrus were the unreasonable one here.
Cyrus didn't even blink. Not a muscle moved on his face, save for the subtle tightening of his jaw. His arms folded neatly across his chest, posture rigid yet maddeningly composed. He didn't need to shout; the calmness in his tone carried more weight than a roar. "Leave the room," he said, his voice sharp enough to cut stone. "We are going to hunt and we are going to—" His words stuttered for the smallest moment, irritation threading through like a crack in glass.
The unfinished sentence hung in the air like smoke.
