"Spoiling your Cyrus?"
The words slipped from Kian's lips low and deliberate, carrying the weight of a blade sliding free from its sheath. His gaze, cool as a winter stream, flicked toward Isabella with a coldness that made the air itself tense.
Isabella's breath hitched. That tone—so flat, so dangerously calm—always meant trouble.
He repeated it slower, as if testing each word on his tongue. "Your. Cyrus."
For the first time in his life, Kian found himself… offended. And Kian didn't do offense. He lived above such things, or at least he told himself he did. But this? This was a revelation.
HER Cyrus.
Not just Cyrus anymore. Oh no, that ship had apparently sailed without his permission. HER Cyrus.
And what made it sting worse? He hadn't even realized the shift had happened until today.
It wasn't just offensive—it was humiliating.
His jaw tightened, but his face stayed maddeningly neutral. Inside, though, something twisted, sharp and unpleasant.
