The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

"Awwwn, baby," Isabella cooed instantly, her voice melting. She dropped to her knees and scooped Glimora into her arms like she was the only good thing left in the world. "Come here, my little snow puff."

Glimora let herself be crushed to Isabella's chest, fluffy tail flicking like a queen who'd just earned her tribute.

"Sometimes it's just really hard to contain my emotions, you know?" Isabella whispered as she pressed soft kisses against the top of Glimora's head. "It's like he pulls my brain out, shreds it like leaves, then hands it back and goes 'Here, sweetheart, I made it better.' I mean, the audacity!"

Glimora gave a squeaky little sneeze in response.

Right then, the curtain separating the room from the corridor outside shifted.

A soft swish of fur.

The low creak of the stick frame bending slightly.

Isabella's head turned, still cradling Glimora. Her lashes lifted. The gold strands of her hair shifted with the movement as she blinked up.

And there he was.

Cyrus.

He stepped inside, his expression gentle but clouded with something unreadable. His tunic was loose, darkened with patches of dried blood, and the cuts across his arms and collarbone were fresh—still raw from the fight. The firelight flickered against his skin, highlighting the edges of each bruise.

His presence filled the room quietly, like the hush that follows thunder.

Isabella's gaze locked with his.

"You're back," Isabella muttered without looking at him, the words slipping from her lips like fallen leaves—light, casual, dismissive. Too casual.

She scooped Glimora into her arms with performative indifference, like the fluffy creature was suddenly the most fascinating being on earth. And maybe she was, because Glimora didn't start drama. Glimora didn't break hearts. Glimora didn't have unreadable eyes that made her feel like a poem being interpreted wrong.

She walked across the room, her hips stiff, footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor. She lowered Glimora into a small nest of fur by the fire with dramatic tenderness, adjusting the bedding like a mother tucking in a baby—anything to avoid looking at him.

Cyrus stood there in silence.

The flames from the hearth cast soft shadows across his face. His presence wasn't loud, but it was felt—like standing too close to a storm that hadn't broken yet.

"Are you okay—" he started, voice rough and low, but she cut in sharp.

"You need to cook. Glimora is hungry."

She didn't even glance his way as she said it, hands twitching uselessly as she rearranged a rock that didn't need moving, then ran her fingers along a bowl that was already clean. Her knuckles were white from how tightly she gripped the air.

Cyrus blinked slowly. He exhaled once, quietly.

"Okay," he said, soft. Patient. Hopeful. "What do you want to eat? I'll make it."

She said nothing.

He waited.

Still nothing.

And just as he opened his mouth again, he caught it—under her breath, a whisper barely audible.

"I'm not hungry," she murmured, finally turning.

Only to crash face-first into the wall of his chest.

Her brows snapped together in surprise. When had he moved so close? He hadn't made a sound. Not a step. Not a breath.

It was like he'd just appeared in front of her.

She opened her mouth, confused and ready to accuse him of stalking like a ghost, but then—she saw it.

The cuts.

On his chest. His arms. His collarbone. Faint but angry, still raw from the fight. Some looked fresh, others bruised and fading.

Her heartbeat slowed.

"Cyrus," she said, all the venom gone from her voice. "You're hurt."

Her hand lifted before she could think, fingers hovering next to one of the cuts. She didn't touch it yet. Just hovered—gentle, uncertain, as though her touch might shatter something.

"Can't you heal yourself?" she asked softly, eyes scanning every gash like she could take the pain herself if she stared hard enough.

Cyrus should have told the truth.

He should've said yes.

He should've explained that his healing wasn't broken, that he was perfectly fine, that the pain wasn't unbearable.

But he didn't.

"I can't," he said.

And it wasn't just a lie.

It was a need.

He wanted her like this—close, worried, tender. Her anger had cut him deeper than any enemy ever could. But this—this moment, with her standing inches away, concern dripping from her voice, fingertips trembling with the desire to help him—this was the closest he'd felt to peace in days.

She believed him without hesitation.

Because that's what she did. She trusted Cyrus. The quiet one. The kind one. The one who never lied.

(Hear that, kids? Don't trust people just because they're quiet. Even a forest fire starts silently.)

Maybe it was the way he carried himself, the softness in his voice, or the fact that he never tried to own her, just protect her. But Isabella didn't question it. Not even once.

Her fingers finally brushed the edge of one cut.

Cyrus sucked in a quiet breath—not from the pain, but from the way her touch lit something under his skin. Like lightning trapped in a bottle. He wanted to lean into it. Wrap her up. Apologize for everything and nothing. Beg her to forgive him for the things he hadn't even done yet.

He stared down at her. She was looking up at him now, eyes wide and full of unspoken things. Her hair was a golden halo, wild and soft, framing her flushed face. The firelight made her glow like something sacred.

She opened her mouth.

"So—"

But she didn't get to finish.

Soft footsteps echoed from the corridor, breaking the fragile silence.

Then came the voice.

"Is anyone around?"

IIyana.

Just her voice. Like poison in a glass of wine.

Isabella stiffened. Her hand dropped. Her entire face darkened like someone had blown out the sun.

Glacial silence.

Cyrus's chest was still in front of her, but she was no longer looking at him. She was staring past him, past the curtain, through the walls, out into the cold where IIyana's voice had come from.

Cyrus didn't move.

He didn't say a word.

But he felt the shift in her.

The warmth between them? Gone. Smothered. She retreated without stepping back. Pulled away without moving at all.

He'd lost her again.

And the worst part?

He hadn't even done anything.

Not yet.