Chapter 73

The afternoon sun filtered through cream-colored drapes, casting a warm glow over the plush living room where Cassandra, Thomas, and Cyrus stood at the heart of an awkward tableau. Cyrus’s face, previously a mask of panic, relaxed at last, reverting to his customary expression of mild irritation. He brushed a lock of dark hair from his forehead and offered, in his usual clipped tone, “All right, I’m calm now. Remember, my skull’s practically bulletproof.”

Cassandra, cheeks still wet with tears she’d hastily wiped away, managed a small, apologetic smile. She paused in her motion—one hand clutching a soft handkerchief, the other gathering stray droplets—before turning to her husband. “I’m really sorry,” she murmured, her voice gentle yet firm. Then she looked at Thomas with a reproving shake of her head. “You really shouldn’t have flicked his forehead that hard. Look at it—bright red.”

Thomas stretched into an easy grin, wrapping an arm around Cassandra’s slender shoulders