Cyrus stood by the bed, watching Kane's chest rise and fall in the gentle rhythm of unconsciousness.
His fingers drifted to his chest, where the mirror of Kane's karmic seal lay hidden beneath expensive fabric.
The connection between them felt unusually calm now, a steady warmth rather than the pulsing, demanding thing it often became when Kane was conscious and argumentative.
"This was necessary," Cyrus whispered to the quiet room, though he wasn't entirely convinced himself.
He'd acted on instinct—a rare occurrence for someone who prided himself on calculated decisions.
Something about Kane's recklessness with Bob Holloway had triggered a protective response that surprised even him.
Cyrus moved to the window, his reflection ghostly in the glass.
Kane would be furious when he woke. The fox had made it abundantly clear how much he resented being underestimated or controlled.
"So be it," Cyrus murmured.
