CHAPTER 340: CHAPTER 340: DON’T LAUGH AT HER

Glimora’s growl deepened, low and rumbling, like a tiny storm bottled up inside her fluffy little body. Her eyes were locked on Zyran, unblinking, blazing like blue fire.

"Glimora—" Isabella’s voice was gentle, coaxing, almost pleading, "don’t be mad, it’s fine. Cyrus is going to cook."

But Glimora wasn’t hearing her. Not one word. Her ears were flat, tail swishing with that dangerous kind of rhythm that screamed: I’m about to ruin this man’s entire existence.

Zyran, to his credit, didn’t panic. No—he was Zyran, after all. Instead, he tilted his head, lips curving into that maddeningly calm, smug smile. His red eyes slid to Cyrus as though Glimora wasn’t two seconds away from clawing his face off.

"I’ll meet you at the kitchen to help," he said smoothly, like he’d planned this retreat all along. And before anyone could blink, his body shimmered and—poof—he was gone.

Right on cue, Glimora lunged, teeth bared, claws outstretched—only to land in thin air.

The little beast hit the floor with an indignant thud, skidding to a stop, her growl cut off mid-sound. Her ears twitched in disbelief.

Isabella blinked once. Twice. Then her lips tugged upward.

Cyrus let out a quiet huff through his nose, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he was holding back a laugh.

They looked at each other. For a heartbeat, silence filled the room. Then Isabella’s composure cracked, and a soft laugh slipped past her lips.

"Don’t laugh at her," she whispered, though her shoulders shook, betraying her amusement.

Glimora whipped around with the speed of an insulted queen. Her eyes, wide and shimmering with betrayal, locked onto Isabella.

The message was clear: You’re laughing? At me?

"Ah..." Isabella’s giggle faltered, her hand flying to cover her mouth. "Glimora, baby, no, don’t give me that look. It’s okay, I swear. It’s fine, he’s gone. See? No more Zyran. Come here."

But Glimora didn’t budge. She stayed planted, still glaring at the space Zyran had vanished from.

"Please?" Isabella leaned forward, patting her lap. "Come closer. You’re my good girl, aren’t you? Don’t waste your pretty little scowl on him. He doesn’t deserve it."

Her voice softened into that coaxing sweetness only Isabella could manage, and after a long pause, Glimora huffed loudly—like a sulky child—and padded forward. Each step was slow, deliberate, as if she wanted to make sure everyone in the room knew just how much effort forgiveness was costing her.

Finally, she climbed back onto Isabella’s lap, curling into a tight ball but still glaring sideways, her little blue eyes flicking every so often at the spot where Zyran had been.

Isabella chuckled again, stroking her soft fur. "See? That’s better. You don’t need to be so angry, sweetheart."

Cyrus had been watching quietly the whole time, his arms crossed. But when he finally moved, it was with that calm certainty that always seemed to ground the room. He stepped closer, his voice low but firm, meant more for Glimora than Isabella.

"I’m going to deal with him, okay?" His eyes flicked to Isabella for a moment, softer, before returning to Glimora. "Then I’ll bring food for you and Isabella."

For a second, Glimora seemed to consider him. Then she snorted—an actual snort—and turned her face away dramatically, like some diva refusing her least favorite suitor.

Cyrus blinked, then let out the smallest chuckle, shaking his head. "Even me?" he asked, tilting his head at her. His lips curved, amusement breaking through his usual composure. "You’re mad at me too?"

The little creature responded by turning further away, her back to him, tail flicking.

Isabella bit her lip, shoulders shaking again. She couldn’t help it. The sight of calm, collected Cyrus being given the cold shoulder by a ball of fur was too much. She pressed her face into Glimora’s head for a second, stifling her laugh.

"Remember," she said quickly, lifting her head and meeting Glimora’s eyes, "don’t be mad at him. He’s the one who will feed you." She leaned closer, lowering her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "And remember—his food is the tastiest."

Her grin widened as she delivered the final blow.

"Like, seriously, you won’t survive if you stay mad at him."

Cyrus’ eyes softened at Isabella’s words, his gaze lingering on her longer than necessary. For him, it wasn’t just about convincing Glimora—it was about that spark in Isabella’s tone, the warmth she carried even when scolding gently.

He turned back to Glimora, crouching slightly to meet her eye level. His expression wasn’t strict, wasn’t scolding—it was amused, almost playful.

But Glimora? She stayed stiff. Her back was still to him, her tiny body radiating indignation.

And that was where the tension lingered.

Cyrus stayed crouched for a while longer, waiting. His sharp, steady gaze didn’t waver, but his patience was beginning to crack. Glimora, the little furball of defiance, wasn’t even sparing him a glance anymore. She’d gone full statue mode—tail flicking, ears flat, every inch of her screaming I will not be moved.

Isabella stroked her back gently, whispering little comforts. "Don’t be like that, baby. He’s not the enemy. He’s just... a little too good at pretending he’s serious. But the truth is, he’s the reason we eat like royalty."

Cyrus expression stayed steady, though the edges of his mouth gave the secret away—he liked hearing that.

But then, as his light pink eyes lingered on Glimora’s stubborn profile, something flickered in them. The tiniest spark of an idea.

He leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice into that smooth tone that always carried a subtle weight. "What if I told you..." he began slowly, drawing the words out like bait on a string, "...I have a surprise for you and Isabella?"

At first, nothing. Glimora didn’t twitch, didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Her ears stayed pinned, and Isabella herself tilted her head at him suspiciously.

Cyrus’ gaze sharpened with mischief Isabella had never seen in him before. His voice dipped lower, quiet and deliberate, as though weaving a spell.