Chapter 24

Patience's POV

I jolted, spinning around to see Cyrus's handsome face.

He must have arrived without my noticing. He was standing a short distance away, his gaze calm as he looked at me.

"How did you find me here?" I asked, surprised by his presence.

"Since you declined my assistant's invitation, I naturally had to come in person," Cyrus said, his tone carrying a hint of finality that left no room for refusal.

I pursed my lips—Cyrus had come himself, which meant there was no escaping this dinner.

His eyes swept over the names inscribed below the urns.

"These are your parents' ashes?" he asked, his voice devoid of emotion.

"Yes," I nodded, a sudden pang of sorrow welling up inside me.

Seeing him here felt odd, yet inexplicably. I wasn't as averse to his presence as I thought I would be.

"Only extraordinary werewolves are honored with the wolf-head flag," Cyrus remarked, his gaze fixed on the crimson emblem.

"They were ordinary werewolves, but also heroes," I replied, my voice tinged with uncontainable pride.

My parents had joined the Royal Legion, ready to sacrifice themselves at any moment.

As a child, I had been afraid.

I feared they would encounter danger on their missions, that one day I might never see them again, and I had clung to my mother's leg, crying and making a scene.

At that time, my father had squatted down, holding me in his broad, warm embrace.

He said, "Patty, Mom and Dad are werewolf warriors because we have a belief in our hearts. When you grow up, you'll understand."

Growing up, I gradually comprehended my father's words and what belief truly meant.

That was why I chose Thornmoon Military Academy for college, and after graduation, like my parents and brother, I became a werewolf warrior.

If it weren't for the sudden news of my parents' death, perhaps I would still be holding onto that belief in my post.

"Since you came in person, let's go," I said, pulling myself back to the present.

I turned to leave, only to find Cyrus still standing there.

"Aren't you coming or not...?"

I began, but my words trailed off as I watched him stride to the urns of my parents' ashes, straighten his back, and bow deeply three times.

I was completely stunned.

His expression was solemn, each bow meticulously executed, his forehead nearly touching the glass cabinet. The respect he showed was genuine, impossible to feign.

After the third bow, Cyrus straightened up and walked to my side.

"Let's go," he said, his tone returning to its usual detachment.

I wanted to ask why he had done that, but the words died on my lips.

"Bowing?" he seemed to read my mind and explained, "They are heroes, deserving of respect from every werewolf. It was only right for me to do so."

An indescribable emotion surged within me, a mix of sourness and warmth.

People often said Cyrus was a madman, unpredictable and ruthless.

I had even witnessed his dark moments.

After subduing the assassin, he had pointed a gun at the criminal's temple, his eyes cold and murderous, completely disregarding the law.

But just now, he had shown my parents the utmost respect.

This was something Kelsey should have done.

He was my mate, yet he had never shown such respect.

Now, this respect came from a dangerous man who was almost a stranger.

We walked out of the columbarium, where a black Maybach was already waiting.

The werewolf guards quickly opened the rear door for us as soon as we emerged.

Once inside the car, Cyrus didn't say much, only instructing the driver to head to a private restaurant.

"Have you been to this place before?" he asked as the cityscape blurred past the car windows.

"No," I shook my head. I had never set foot in such a place before.

"The food here is quite good. You should give it a try," Cyrus said, his tone neutral, neither overly polite nor dismissive.

The restaurant was quiet, with only our table occupied.

One dish after another was served, and I simply dug in.

For one, I was genuinely hungry, and two, I wanted to finish eating as quickly as possible to end this meal that was stirring up such complicated feelings within me.

I always ate quickly. When I was about eighty percent full, I put down my knife and fork, my gaze inadvertently falling on Cyrus's hands as he held his cutlery.

They were beautiful hands, with long, well-defined fingers and a cool, pale complexion.

Even holding ordinary silver cutlery, they exuded an unusual elegance.

A beauty that was sharp, as if those utensils could transform into deadly weapons in his grasp at any moment.

"You've been staring at my hands. Is there something wrong with them?" Cyrus's voice, casual and indifferent, interrupted my thoughts.

"No," I replied, coming back to reality. "I just thought they were beautiful."

Like a finely crafted weapon, dangerous yet captivating.

"Is that so?" Cyrus looked up at me.

"If I were to die before you, Ms. Frost, I would have my hands cut off as a gift for you."

"Ahem!" I choked on my saliva, coughing violently and quickly grabbing the lemon water beside me to take a large gulp, barely catching my breath.

I looked at him, trying to find any sign of a joke on his face.

But his eyes were serious, without a hint of jest.

"Mr. Gross, you have a real sense of humor," I forced a dry laugh, trying to defuse the eerie atmosphere.

"I'm not joking," Cyrus said flatly, as if discussing something perfectly ordinary.