"What is the problem? Do you want to have a taste?" he asked Ophelia, voice soft but clear, and that was the exact mont she snapped out of her little trance. Her eyes blinked fast, like she’d just been pulled back from a sweet dream, and she looked up at Cyrus, nodding before her brain could pretend to be shy.
Glimora, who had gone quiet a mont ago, was no longer thinking about her eternal war with Zyran. The second Cyrus offered a taste, the tiny white nace locked on the small pot like a hunter spotting fresh at. All that anger? Thrown out the window. Dessert first. Nesis later.
Of course Cyrus noticed. He always noticed. And normally, honestly, he might have given in—because Glimora’s big eyes were ridiculous, and he knew it. But you all should rember: Glimora wasn’t supposed to be ANYWHERE near the kitchen. Rules are rules, and Kian’s rules are not suggestions.
And even though Cyrus never specified it out loud, she was ant to be under watch with Isabella. So apparently, soone had let the leash slack. Which ans Kian had failed at his job. (Not that Cyrus took it like that, I’m just saying, people. I’m only telling you the facts.)
Glimora, seeing that Cyrus was really ignoring her, doubled down. First ca the little squeaks. Then the louder ones. Then the dramatic sighs only a spoiled baby queen could produce. Ophelia looked down at her, confused and trying not to laugh. "Do you also want so, Glimora?" she asked gently.
Glimora nodded so fast her ears wobbled. Then she turned back to Cyrus on purpose, just to make sure he saw the nod. The ssage was clear: look at , sir. See my suffering.
Cyrus finally looked at her. He tried to hold back his smile and almost failed, because the expression on her face was a lot. Pleading, yes. But also entitled. At that point, he wasn’t even seeing a little beast anymore. He was seeing Isabella—the exact sa "I deserve this" look hiding under sweet eyes. Tell I’m wrong.
He took a breath, kept his voice calm, and shook his head. "No. If Isabella hasn’t had so yet, you won’t have so. I want you both to eat at the sa ti."
Glimora shook her head right back, as if trying to say, No, no, it doesn’t matter. I can eat without my mama. I can do it. I’m big enough. She even puffed her chest like she was about to apply for a job.
"I know you’re grown enough," Cyrus said, steady, "but you will not have any until Isabella is here. It shows how much you love and respect her."
Instant pout. Instant heartbreak face. Her little mouth drooped; her ears went down; her tail made a sad question mark. Ophelia glanced from him to her and, sorry, she giggled. She tried to cover it with a cough, but it was too late.
Glimora turned her head slowly and gave Ophelia the coldest little side-eye. The giggle died on the spot. In that instant, Ophelia felt like Isabella had just scolded her with one stare—but this ti it was Glimora, not Isabella. Sa energy. Copy-paste queen behavior.
Ophelia looked back up at Cyrus for help. Cyrus, being Cyrus, kept it simple. "You can take a little," he told her.
Ophelia’s face lit like sunrise. She nodded excitedly, the kind of nod that said she’d been waiting her whole life for this exact spoon. She adjusted her hold on Glimora, who was now sulking hard and pretending to sleep in her arms.
Glimora pouted, skulked, and settled deeper into Ophelia’s hug with that very sad expression only professional troublemakers can master. Just as Ophelia reached out, fingers stretching toward the spoon to have a taste, Cyrus caught sight of sothing on her hands.
He went still. His eyes narrowed the tiniest bit. A crease showed between his brows, sharp and displeased.
He did not say a word, but the look alone said it clearly: whatever was on Ophelia’s hands, he didn’t like it.
The kitchen felt like it held its breath. The fire was low and steady. The air slled of warm stone, sweet coconut, and honey.
Ophelia swallowed. "Only a little," she repeated, to show she knew the rules. She loved rules when they protected Isabella and hated them when they blocked dessert.
Cyrus rinsed the spoon in a clay cup, shook off one drop, then turned the handle toward her. Safe first.
Glimora cracked one eye, then the other. She lifted her hands and tried to pull the spoon closer with pure will. When that failed, she tried a soft whine. When that failed, she used the big eyes.
"Later," Ophelia whispered. "We share with Isabella. Promise."
Glimora grumbled but stayed put, chin parked on Ophelia’s arm like a judge.
Ophelia reached. Her fingers trembled a little—happy hands shake. She pictured telling Isabella, "It’s perfect," and seeing that proud smile. The thought made her step closer.
Cyrus watched. Calm, careful. He did not hover. He just made sure nothing foolish happened.
"Slow," he said.
"I am slow," she whispered back, even though she wasn’t.
Steam kissed her knuckles. The spoon shook once.
Glimora held her breath.
Cyrus’ gaze dropped—not to the spoon, but to Ophelia’s hands. Sothing there caught the light. Small, but not small to him. His eyes narrowed the way they do when he wants to fix a thing quietly.
He angled his chin to be very sure. He saw it again.
The warmth in his face cooled a degree. The air around him went still.
"It’s okay," Ophelia said, thinking he feared a spill. "I’ll be careful."
He did not answer. He kept looking at her hands.
Ophelia froze, spoon hanging over the cream. She blinked up, confused.
Glimora looked up too, ready for drama.
Cyrus lifted his eyes from her fingers to her face. Then back again. He didn’t speak. He frowned.
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