For a second, there was silence. That thick, tight kind of silence that wraps around the throat and threatens to snap.
Isabella's gaze was locked on Opehlia like a hawk zeroed in on a trembling rabbit. Her jaw was clenched, her fingers curling tightly around Glimora's fur. Even the tiny beast sensed the shift in the air—her fluffy ears dropped flat against her head as she peeked up at her mama's stiffened expression.
Valen stood nearby, stiff and unsure. His eyes darted between both women, sensing an eruption but not sure who to calm. His hand hovered near Opehlia's elbow, but he didn't dare touch her—not now.
"I just think he needs a gentle hand," Opehlia said softly, the words falling like fragile petals into a pit of thorns.
And that was it.
Isabella snapped.
"Gentle hand?!" Her voice cracked through the air like a whip. "This is not gentleness, Opehlia! This is stupidity."
