The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

"Ok, that will be all for now. Go wash up and make food for us to eat," Isabella said quickly, grabbing the moment like a lifeline as she took a sharp step back.

The bowl of cream hit the stone floor with a soft clack as she set it down. She turned her back to him, pretending to busy herself with rinsing her hands in the water basin nearby. The chill of the water bit into her skin, but she welcomed it—it was something to focus on. Something real. Something cold enough to pull her back into her body.

Behind her, she could feel Cyrus's gaze. Like always, it was soft. Kind. Patient. So damn patient it made her chest twist.

But this time, it wasn't sad. He didn't feel rejection crawling up his spine like usual.

There was something different in the air. Lighter. Hopeful.

"Mmh," he hummed quietly, and she could hear the small smile in it before he turned to leave. The curtain swayed as he gently pushed it aside, and the sound of his footsteps faded.

Only then did she let herself breathe.

Her hands stilled in the basin, fingers trembling just slightly above the water. She stared down at the ripples and watched them vanish one by one, leaving the surface still. Too still.

Why was her heart pounding like that?

She pressed her palms to her cheeks, then gripped the edge of the basin. Her knuckles turned white. This wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to feel anything. This was supposed to be easy. Keep everyone at arm's length, enjoy the moment, and move on. No attachments. No lingering looks. No... sighs.

She wasn't here to find love.

Love had never done her any favors.

Cyrus... he was the type of man who deserved love. Who would give it fully, without holding back, without asking for anything in return. And that made it worse. That made it dangerous. Because he wasn't the kind of person you could play pretend with and then walk away from.

He'd never try to trap her, but it would still feel like a cage.

He deserved someone who wanted all the things she didn't. Mating, bonding, a life tied up neatly with someone else's. A forever. And that wasn't her. It could never be her.

Because to her, mating had always looked like a prison sentence dressed up with flowers. It wasn't love, not really. It was ownership, expectation. It was her mother, sitting by the window every night, waiting for someone who never came back. It was dreams left behind, and laughter that dried up too fast.

Everyone here dreamed of it—mating. Being chosen. Being loved in that consuming, soul-binding way.

But Isabella? She couldn't dream of belonging to anyone. She didn't want to be someone's other half. She didn't want to be half of anything. She wanted to be whole. Free. Untouchable.

Her heart wasn't just closed—it was locked. Sealed behind walls so high even she forgot what they were protecting.

And Cyrus? He made her forget those walls even existed. Just for a second.

That was the problem.

That was what scared her.

When Isabella finished cleaning up, she moved with practiced grace, washing her hands quietly and drying them off with the edge of her fur wrap. Her fingers were still trembling slightly from earlier—not that she'd ever admit that to anyone. She blinked twice and ran her hand down her face, pushing away every lingering trace of emotion, forcing herself to go back to neutral.

She hated when feelings tried to sneak up on her like that.

Cyrus still hadn't returned yet, and the silence in the room felt louder than usual. The air had grown still, and with nothing else to distract her, the ache in her chest began to stretch again—slow, creeping, uncomfortable.

And neither had she seen Ophelia since the talk earlier.

It wasn't like Isabella was looking for her, per se. She hadn't gone around asking people if they'd seen the girl. But every time her eyes scanned the room, or every time she heard footsteps approaching, a small, ridiculous part of her hoped it would be Ophelia popping around the corner with that stupid, sheepish grin she always wore after doing something embarrassing. Like knocking over soup or tripping on air.

But no. The girl was nowhere to be found.

She's been wondering where she was and—fine—also wondering if Ophelia was mad at her. Not that Isabella regretted anything she said. Oh, hell no. She stood by every single syllable. The girl had needed that firm hand. A verbal slap, if you will. She had been spiraling, acting like she wasn't capable of anything, and if Isabella hadn't stepped in to shake her out of that nonsense, then who would've?

Still… Ophelia had this weird way of getting under Isabella's skin. Not in a bad way. More like a splinter you didn't know was there until you bumped it and suddenly ouch, feelings. Because as much as Isabella wanted to roll her eyes and move on, her brain kept circling back.

Was Ophelia somewhere sulking?

Did she actually hear the things Isabella said? Or had she shut down and blocked it all out?

Did she cry?

Isabella clenched her jaw. She didn't want to make her cry. That wasn't the goal. She just wanted her to wake up, to realize her worth, to stop shrinking into herself like she was a speck of dust in everyone's shadow.

Now to make things clear, Isabella was not sorry for the way she spoke to Ophelia. If she had to go back, she'd say it all again—word for word, with extra spice. She still thought Ophelia deserved that blunt honesty, that no-nonsense push. Someone had to snap her out of her nonsense, and clearly everyone else around her was too damn polite to do it.

But… damn it, a part of her hoped the girl wasn't crushed.

She was just wondering if Ophelia had actually considered her words. If she sat somewhere in a quiet corner of the Palace, hugging her knees to her chest and thinking, Maybe Isabella's right. Maybe I've been hiding for too long. Maybe I need to change.