The sound hit like a crack in the air—loud, sharp, and impossible to ignore.
Cyrus reacted instantly. One second, he was standing there, calm and collected, the picture of quiet composure; the next, he pivoted on his heel so fast that loose strands of his red hair whipped across his shoulders.
His shoulders squared, eyes narrowing in alert focus as he locked on to the source of the noise. It wasn't just a glance—it was a full body turn, the kind of movement that said his entire mind had gone from peaceful domestic cleanup to protect mode in a heartbeat.
Isabella saw his expression and instantly recognized it: that guarded, sharp-edged look he got when danger was a possibility. A little spike of warmth hit her chest—he always moved like this for her—but it was quickly drowned out by the sheer curiosity of what the heck was going on.
She turned in her seat, following the direction of Cyrus's line of sight. Her brows furrowed, then lifted, then furrowed again in pure disbelief.
