Glimora's growl deepened, low and rumbling, like a tiny storm bottled up inside her fluffy little body. Her eyes were locked on Zyran, unblinking, blazing like blue fire.
"Glimora—" Isabella's voice was gentle, coaxing, almost pleading, "don't be mad, it's fine. Cyrus is going to cook."
But Glimora wasn't hearing her. Not one word. Her ears were flat, tail swishing with that dangerous kind of rhythm that screamed: I'm about to ruin this man's entire existence.
Zyran, to his credit, didn't panic. No—he was Zyran, after all. Instead, he tilted his head, lips curving into that maddeningly calm, smug smile. His red eyes slid to Cyrus as though Glimora wasn't two seconds away from clawing his face off.
"I'll meet you at the kitchen to help," he said smoothly, like he'd planned this retreat all along. And before anyone could blink, his body shimmered and—poof—he was gone.
Right on cue, Glimora lunged, teeth bared, claws outstretched—only to land in thin air.
