Isabella didn't move a muscle—her arms stayed locked over her chest, her expression sharp and unimpressed. Her lips were pressed into a firm line, but her eyes? Her eyes were practically screaming. The full force of her glare told Cyrus: "Go on. Answer her. I dare you."
And just to make sure her point was made loud and crystal clear, she tilted her chin toward the curtain like she was physically directing him to go greet his precious visitor. That same look women had been giving men since the dawn of time—the silent, universal language of "She's. Here. For. You."
Cyrus stood tall and disheveled, blood dried across the bare skin of his chest and arm like war paint, but he didn't even blink. His broad shoulders were back, his jaw tight, but his eyes—those ridiculously soft pink eyes—remained fixed on Isabella like she was the only thing in this entire world that mattered.
Without shifting his gaze even once, he raised his voice just enough for Ilyana to hear.
