The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

"Isabella," Cyrus called out softly.

But Isabella?

Nope. She wasn't playing those games tonight.

She didn't even look up. She focused hard on the creamy salve she was spreading across his skin, pretending she didn't hear a thing. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, but her eyes—those were glued to the shallow bowl in her hands like it held the secrets of the universe. Maybe if she just concentrated hard enough, she could will herself out of the mess of emotions she was currently drowning in.

Cyrus' smile deepened. He could see through it—how she was biting the inside of her cheek, pretending to be deeply focused, how her brows were furrowed a little too tightly, her lips slightly parted as if concentrating… or panicking.

She looked adorable. Stubborn. Unwilling to meet his gaze, like she knew she'd crumble the second she did.

Just as her hand began to lift from his chest to dip back into the bowl, his fingers closed gently around hers.

Isabella froze.

Like actually froze.

The warmth of his skin against her hand lit up every nerve in her body. Her breath caught somewhere between her throat and lungs as she slowly—so slowly—looked up.

And there he was.

Cyrus had leaned in just a little, his tall frame folding in closer without ever crowding her. His fingers stayed gentle, just a whisper of pressure, but his eyes—those gentle pink eyes—stared straight into hers like he saw something sacred.

And he probably did. Because Cyrus? Cyrus didn't look at people like they were background noise. He looked like they were the main reason the world kept spinning.

Her heart? Oh, it was absolutely thumping now.

He looked... unreal. Like something carved out of light. Precious. And painfully kind. Too kind for someone like her.

"W-what?" she asked finally, her voice a low whisper, barely more than a breath. Her throat was dry, and her lips tingled with the words she wasn't brave enough to say.

Why did she always feel like this around him?

She wasn't supposed to. He was nice—so nice—and gentle. Too gentle. The kind of man she usually rolled her eyes at. The kind that smiled too easily and forgave too quickly. The kind who had no edge, no bark, no bite.

And yet… she couldn't look away.

Cyrus wasn't boring. Not to her. Not with the way he noticed everything. The way he helped without making a big show of it. The way he stepped back when she needed space and stepped in when she needed saving—without ever needing to be asked.

He listened when others just nodded. He remembered the little things. He cared before she even had to say a word.

And maybe—just maybe—that's why this was all so hard.

Because maybe she was jealous.

Jealous of Ilyana for getting too close. Jealous of anyone who got to sit next to him too long. Jealous of his attention even when it wasn't hers to claim.

She shouldn't feel this way. She knew that.

She shouldn't want more from him. Shouldn't want to reach up and touch his face. Shouldn't want to hold on to his hand just a second longer.

Because she wasn't supposed to lead someone like Cyrus on. He wasn't a toy. He wasn't a side character in her drama. He was real. Kind. Good.

And if she let herself get close—really close—what if she hurt him?

Hurting Cyrus? That was the one thing she couldn't do. Not to him. Not ever.

Because deep down, buried under all the denial and sarcasm and sass she carried around like armor, a quiet part of her already knew the truth:

Cyrus was too good for her.

Cyrus watched the way so many emotions played on her face.

She wasn't even trying to hide them. That was the part that undid him. For someone so proud, she never concealed the things that mattered—her anger, her hesitation, her care. It showed in the tight pull of her lips, the furrow of her brow, the way her gaze refused to settle on him for more than a breath.

She was overwhelmed.

And still… she was here.

Standing in front of him. Touching him like he wasn't something terrifying.

His eyes dropped to her hands. Small. Delicate. She was dabbing the salve over his skin with such careful focus, like she was afraid of hurting him, even though she had every right to be the one hurting.

Cyrus exhaled slowly, trying not to stare.

But gods—he always stared.

Her face was close. Too close. The soft strands of her hair brushed his arm as she leaned in. Her lashes were longer than he remembered. Her lips—

He glanced at them.

Just once.

And then looked away before his thoughts could betray him.

Not now.

Not like this.

Her scent was herbal and faintly sweet, mixed with smoke from the fire behind her. The warmth of her body made the night feel less bitter.

Cyrus stood still, his arm resting perfectly still by his sides, forcing himself to stay composed even as her fingers skimmed over another scrape. He didn't flinch, though it stung. He wasn't sure if it was the pain of the wound… or the pain of wanting to reach for her and not being allowed to.

He didn't know.

Not really.

He didn't speak. Not yet. He didn't trust his voice not to give too much away.

But he watched her.

Every small movement. Every breath she took.

And somewhere between the awkward silence and the sound of the wind in the trees, he found himself murmuring, "You don't have to do all this, you know."

His voice was soft. Gentle. So much gentler than the thoughts running through his head.

"I do," she said, not meeting his eyes.

Cyrus tilted his head slightly, just enough to study her expression again.

"I'd still be breathing tomorrow," he added.

Her hands paused.

"I'd rather you breathe without pain."

That shut him up.

He blinked.

A quiet ache bloomed in his chest, warm and slow and terrifying.

Cyrus looked away, just for a moment. He needed to think about something else—anything else—but his gaze found her again instantly. Like it was pulled to her on instinct.

The moonlight kissed her skin.

And his heart beat louder.

He wondered, briefly, what it would feel like to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. Or to rest his hand on her cheek, just long enough for her to look up and finally see him the way he saw her.

But no.

He couldn't.

Not yet.

So instead, he let himself watch in silence. Let the ache stay unspoken. Let the feelings burn quietly under his ribs where no one could touch them.

Then she touched his side again.

Fingers paused.

Eyes narrowed.

She leaned in with a sudden tension, examining the skin beneath the cream.

Cyrus glanced down, confused.

And that's when he saw it.

The gash that had torn across his ribs was… gone.

She dragged her fingers over his arm next. Another cut. Also vanished.

Cyrus stayed quiet, but he could feel her shift closer, hovering over his skin with barely-contained disbelief.

She stared.

And stared.

He said nothing.

Not about her hands on him. Not about the way she smelled like rain. Not about the fact that her touch had been the only thing keeping him distracted from the pain.

She looked up, eyes wide.

"Oh," she said softly, breath catching. "It really did heal your cuts under a few minutes."