She ignored him and settled closer under his jaw, tail looped like a smug necklace.
"Cute," Isabella whispered, then pretended she had said nothing when Zyran cut her a look that said do not call me cute furniture.
Time stretched. Steam curled; sunlight slid across the boards; the scent of coconut and honey softened the room. For a rare moment, nothing hurt. Feeding something that did not want to kill him—yet—was not the worst task he had drawn.
He placed the last bite against Glimora's tiny mouth. She accepted it like tribute, then licked the tip of his finger once, fast, as if signing a contract he was not allowed to read. Zyran blinked, startled. The room felt different by a hair, as if a line had moved one breath toward friend and one breath from enemy. He did not trust it, but he felt it. He looked away first.
