Cyrus stood in front of the newly fitted door as though it were some strange beast. His tall frame blocked most of the moonlight spilling into the room, the pale silver outlining the sharp edges of his jaw. For a long moment, he didn't move, didn't even blink, and Isabella found herself holding her breath, waiting for him to speak.
He was always like this—so calm, so steady, like a river that looked peaceful on the surface but carried hidden depth underneath. His silence wasn't empty; it was full of thought. And as Isabella watched him, she wondered again how anyone could call Cyrus a monster.
Just because he was born of the snake tribe? Just because his eyes sometimes glowed too sharp, or because his stillness unnerved people who didn't understand it? To them, maybe he was dangerous. But to her? She had never felt safer in her life than when he was near.
