The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

The room's curtain rustled.

Cyrus stepped in, carrying the steaming pot of soup… with his bare hands. No fur wrap. No cloth. No tray. Just raw man, muscle, and madness.

Isabella's eye twitched.

He walked like it was no big deal, like he didn't have a boiling cauldron of molten heat in his hands. The steam rolled off the pot in thick waves, making his arms glisten faintly in the moonlight like he was fresh out of a sauna. He looked calm, almost casual, as if he'd just fetched a bouquet of flowers instead of potentially searing third-degree burns into his skin.

He set it down on the floor with a quiet thud.

And that was the final straw.

Isabella was already up like a shot, her chair creaking backward as she stormed toward him with all the silent fury of a woman who'd warned him about this before—multiple times.

"You have GOT to be kidding me," she snapped.

Cyrus blinked, caught off guard.

Isabella didn't wait. She snatched his wrist, held his hand up to the firelight, and her jaw clenched. His palms were red—flushed and angry-looking, already starting to swell. Little blotches dotted the edges, evidence of the hot metal having pressed too long against his skin.

"Seriously? Again?" she hissed, her voice sharp as flint.

He gave her a sheepish grin—half "oops," half "please don't kill me"—and for a second it worked. He looked like a guilty kid caught licking the spoon before dinner. His shoulders rose slightly in defense, and he bit back a laugh, eyes twinkling with something suspiciously close to pride.

"I swear to every star in the sky, Cyrus," she grumbled, inspecting his hand like it was her full-time job. "I tell you this one time, two times, ten times—do NOT carry hot things with your bare hands! And what do you do? You look me in the face and do exactly that."

He chuckled under his breath, and she rolled her eyes so hard it might've given her a headache.

"Do you even feel pain?" she muttered, mostly to herself, holding his hand like it was sacred porcelain. The contrast between her harsh words and gentle touch wasn't lost on either of them.

The burns weren't bad enough to scar. She knew that. He'd heal by morning, maybe even within the hour. His body bounced back from injuries the same way hers bounced back from emotional damage—fast, and mostly through denial.

But that wasn't the point.

If it were anyone else, she'd have shrugged and gone, "Sucks to suck," while watching them flail around with blistered fingers. She wouldn't have blinked if they carried a whole bonfire barehanded.

But this wasn't anyone. It was Cyrus. The one who made sure she never carried anything heavier than a teacup when she was sick. The one who cautioned people for speaking too loud around her when she had a headache. The one who once made her stay in bed for three straight days because she almost twisted her ankle.

So no, she wasn't about to "let this go."

Caring was exhausting. But caring about him? Infuriating.

She was still holding his wrist when she felt it—his shoulders were shaking slightly.

Her eyes snapped up.

He was laughing. Softly. Quietly. That low rumble of a laugh that always started in his chest and ended in a grin that could melt half the continent.

"What's so funny?" she asked suspiciously.

His grin widened. It was warm and a little mischievous, his eyes crinkling at the corners like he knew exactly how cute he looked and was using it against her.

"Don't do that," she warned, her grip tightening around his wrist. "Don't you dare do that face."

Still, he didn't stop smiling. The bastard.

Acting entirely on instinct, Isabella's free hand flew up toward his head—probably to bop him or slap the grin off his face—but halfway through the motion she froze. Damn it. He was tall.

She glared up at him, realizing she'd either have to jump or stand on something to reach him.

And then—of course—he bent down. Just slightly. Just enough.

Her eyes widened in horror.

"You didn't," she whispered.

He tilted his head innocently.

He absolutely did. He knew exactly what she was about to do and was making it easier for her.

The audacity. The bravery. The stupidity.

"You—!" she hissed, grabbing his ear like it was her God-given right and pulling it hard.

"Ouch—ouch!" Cyrus winced dramatically, voice pitched high like a puppy getting scolded, but there was no denying the stupid grin tugging at the corners of his lips. He wasn't actually trying to hide it. At all.

Because honestly? This was exactly what he wanted.

Okay, maybe not exactly—the ear-pulling wasn't part of the original master plan—but her being this close, grabbing him, snapping at him, putting her hands on him like she owned the place? Yeah. That was the goal. Mission accomplished.

He might've been grimacing in pain, but inside? He was kicking his feet.

When he'd been cooking earlier, stirring the soup and minding his business, he'd had a eureka moment.

> Isabella only touched him when she was annoyed.

She only snapped when she forgot to keep her guard up.

And she only forgot her guard when she was worried.

So what did that mean? He just had to… get her worried. 😌

A few seconds of stinging pain? Worth it.

He'd casually scorched his fingers, already knowing exactly what she'd do.

And now? Look at her. Her brows furrowed. Lips pursed. Standing so close he could feel her breath hitting his chest.

So close he could finally confirm: her eyes really were that unfair shade of blue, like they'd been filtered by the gods.

So close he could smell the faint scent of crushed roses clinging to her clothes from whatever potion she'd handled that morning.

So close she forgot to keep him at arm's length.

And that, my friend, was a win.

She tugged on his ear again and he hissed, not because it hurt that bad—okay, it did—but mostly because he didn't want her to stop. His feet shifted slightly to keep balance, towering over her but bent at just the right angle to give her full access. (He was such a simp, it was tragic😒.)

"What's funny about this?!" Isabella snapped, glaring up at him with an accusatory glint in her eye. Her cheeks were puffed in frustration, lips drawn into a thin line like she was physically trying to restrain herself from smacking him harder.

Cyrus didn't answer. He couldn't. The smirk was back—like a reflex. Like his face had made its own decision before his brain caught up.

He shook his head like a guilty child caught red-handed stealing cookies, the smile refusing to leave, even as she yanked his ear one last time for good measure. Her hand lingered there for half a second longer than it needed to, fingers brushing the side of his neck before she abruptly let go.

She turned around in a huff, shoulders drawn tight, back stiff like a cat about to claw the wall.

The pout on her face could've launched a thousand ships—or at least made him forget his hand still felt like it had been dipped in fire.

"You don't care about my feelings," she said suddenly, her voice quieter, tighter than before. "Why should I care about yours?"

And just like that, Cyrus' grin faded.