The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Isabella grabbed the carved wooden bowl with one hand and dipped it into the clay pot of cool water. Her movements were fast but oddly careful, like someone pretending not to care but secretly trying to ace the test. She peeked over her shoulder before seamlessly snatching a pale-green herb from her space—the kind of herb she never shared unless someone was dying or about to make her cry.

It looked unimpressive. Thin. Scraggly. Kind of like it had been stepped on by a deer and forgotten by nature itself. But this unassuming thing? It was her secret weapon.

She dropped it into the water with a soft plop.

Almost immediately, the liquid thickened like it had a grudge. Within seconds, it morphed from water into a glistening, smooth cream that clung to the edges of the bowl like fresh honey. Isabella blinked.

"What in the—?" she muttered under her breath, tilting her head. "You're telling me that thing turns into this? That's so suspicious. That's criminal behavior, actually."

She poked it once with her finger. It clung. Greedy little thing.

Satisfied—and slightly judgmental—she stood up and turned toward Cyrus, brushing the dust off her skirt with the back of her hand as she walked.

He was sitting near the fire, looking like some tragic myth brought to life—shirtless, of course, because why wouldn't he be? His pale skin gleamed with the leftover glow of the flames, scattered with cuts that stretched across his shoulder and chest like battle scars in a painting.

One arm rested loosely over his bent knee, while the other lay relaxed at his side, his fingers brushing lightly against the fur mat beneath him, slow and steady. His posture was unbothered, almost serene, like even now—covered in cuts and blood—he was more concerned about making her feel comfortable than himself.

His eyes followed her.

Not in suspicion. Not in control. But with quiet curiosity—like he was watching sunlight move across a wall, quietly admiring it without needing to speak.

Except when she dipped her fingers into the bowl to scoop out the cream, his entire focus shifted—straight to her hands. His brows drew together as something clicked behind his gaze.

"Wait… is this also from the mountain?"

Her hand stopped mid-air. Just… froze. The cream, thick and gloppy, dripped slightly from her fingertips as she slowly turned her head toward him, expression flat.

"Don't you dare start, Cyrus," she warned, raising one brow. "You should be grateful I'm even helping you, you ungrateful snake."

Cyrus opened his mouth. Big mistake.

"But—"

"Oh my God, no buts!" she cut in sharply. "You'll be happy and accept it. I have a lot." She said that last part fast. Too fast.

It was a lie. Obviously. She had, like… maybe three leaves left? If that. But she wasn't about to let him launch into one of his survival sermons right now. She could already see his eyes starting to squint, and she was not in the mood.

So before he could think or speak again, she slammed the paste onto his chest with a dramatic flourish. Right over a shallow cut.

At first? Nothing.

Then—

His entire body jerked.

His jaw clenched.

His shoulders rolled back like he was trying not to flinch.

Yep. She'd forgotten to mention the cream had a slight… peppery tingle to it. Nothing dangerous. Just spicy. Like… pepper oil on a sunburn. Oops.

Isabella, who had been very proud of herself a second ago, glanced up to see how he was reacting.

Oh.

Oh no.

His face was tight with pain—not the dramatic kind men fake for attention, but the quiet, gritted-teeth kind that made her stomach do a guilty little flip.

She dropped the bowl like it was cursed.

"I'm sorry," she blurted out, retracting her hand like she'd just touched fire.

"It's okay," Cyrus said softly, voice low and steady. "I don't feel pain… because you're the one doing it."

He meant it—truly. Her fingers barely had enough pressure to leave a dent, let alone hurt him. But it wasn't just that. It was her. The way her hands moved, careful and precise. The way her touch lingered, even when she didn't notice it. She made it easier. Easier to exist. Easier to hope. Easier to feel.

But Isabella didn't hear the truth in his tone. She only thought he was trying to make her feel better.

Her lips quirked into a half-smile—one of those tight, ironic ones that meant she didn't believe a single word. "You're always so nice," she muttered under her breath. "That's why Ilyana thinks she can—"

She stopped herself.

Mid-sentence. Just like that.

Her shoulders stiffened as if she'd accidentally revealed a secret she'd been keeping even from herself. And then, just like that, she shut down. She refused to meet his gaze, suddenly very invested in rubbing cream over the scratches on his bicep like her life depended on it.

Cyrus didn't look away.

He watched her. Quiet, patient. But his mind was racing, trying to understand the emotion behind the sentence she never finished. What was she trying to say? What had she almost admitted?

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he said, "I'll stop speaking to Ilyana. Since you don't like it."

Her hand froze mid-motion.

"What?" Isabella blinked, looking up at him, completely thrown.

"I said I'll stop," he repeated calmly. "If it makes you uncomfortable."

"No—I mean..." She sat up straighter, eyes narrowing, a different kind of heat rushing to her cheeks now. "Do you think I'm the kind of person who controls someone else's life?"

Her voice rose just slightly, not angry, but defensive—like she'd been accused of something she didn't want to be.

"I don't want you to stop talking to her. That's not the point," she continued, frustration bubbling in her throat. "I just… need you to stop letting her hang all over you like that."

And the second the words were out, the silence dropped like a heavy blanket.

Glimora, curled up in the corner with her face buried in her hands, slowly lifted her head. Her ears perked. Drama? Again?

Isabella blinked hard, regretting every vowel that had left her mouth.

"I-I mean—" She cleared her throat and immediately plunged her fingers back into the bowl, like if she stirred fast enough, the embarrassment would dissolve with the herbs. Her cheeks were turning pinker by the second. Crimson blotches crept up her neck. "This cream's getting thicker again… weird."

Lie.

She just couldn't look at him.

Because—ugh—that had sounded like she was in love with him. Or at the very least, wildly jealous. Which she definitely wasn't. Obviously not. Right?

Right?

"I just feel like you're uncomfortable when she gets that close to you," she added in a rush, her voice a little too high-pitched to be casual. "That's all. Like maybe you hate it. Or maybe not. I don't know. I'm not your—person."

She winced.

But Cyrus wasn't listening.

He was smiling. Not a smug smile, not a teasing one—just soft, genuine, and impossibly warm. Like she'd just said something precious without realizing it. And now he couldn't stop looking at her.