Glimora stared at Zyran as he finally slid into a seat, even though he'd declared so confidently a moment ago that he'd "rather stand." Her small body curled on Isabella's lap, but her gaze was sharp, unblinking, too big for her tiny frame. The gleam in her eyes was pure wicked—like she was silently plotting a rebellion with a spoon as her weapon of choice. Her tail flicked once, twice, the way it did when she was deciding whether to pounce or pout.
Luca had already bailed. He made a dramatic excuse about needing air, then carried his plate away so fast you'd think the food was chasing him. Ophelia, realizing quickly she did not have the constitution for lion-sized tension and panther-eyed smirks, clutched her skirt and muttered something about "Valen waiting for me." She bolted like the walls themselves might start yelling.
That left only four. Kian. Cyrus. Zyran. And Isabella, who was clearly the center of gravity, dragging them all into orbit whether she wanted to or not.
