Cyrus stood rigid as Isolde's words slithered through the crowd, sharp and uninvited. His eyes flicked down to the ground as if searching for refuge from the implication she'd just flung so carelessly into the air. The suggestion that Isabella wanted Kian. That Kian wanted her. The very image of it made his lips tighten in discomfort. He shifted his weight, almost like he could physically step away from the thought.
Kian, meanwhile, remained still—his face was a mask carved from stone. Not a twitch, not a breath out of place. Even the flutter of his lashes seemed mechanical. No irritation. No surprise. No… denial. And that silence, that maddening silence, was worse than if he'd roared.
"Go get her," Euphim murmured, voice low and tight. His eyes were locked on Isolde's back, the muscle in his jaw twitching with restraint. "Before Kian decides to end her… or banish her."
