"How much do you need to get your eyes off her?" Zyran asked, tone casual—too casual. He stood with his arms folded, his black cloak swishing with the wind like he was auditioning for a dramatic villain role. His gaze? Fixed on Cyrus with the kind of smug confidence that made people want to commit crimes.
Cyrus didn't answer at first.
Didn't even flinch.
But he did finally turn his head. Slowly. Like the bare act of acknowledging Zyran was a spiritual burden.
And when he looked at him, it wasn't angry.
It wasn't even annoyed.
It was blank. Like he was staring at a piece of lint that had spoken out of turn.
"You can't buy her," Cyrus said flatly, voice low and unbothered.
And damn. That hit.
It wasn't a threat. It wasn't a warning. It wasn't even aggressive.
But it carried weight. Heavy, quiet weight. The kind that landed in the gut and lingered.
Because Cyrus was right.
You can't buy her time. You can't buy her loyalty. You can't buy her heart.
