The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Cyrus froze at her words.

It was like the air in the room thinned in an instant. His brain stuttered, replaying them over and over until they scraped against his skull.

How could she think that? How could she think he didn't care?

His chest tightened—no, clenched—like someone had reached in and given his heart a cruel, deliberate twist. The sudden ache made it hard to breathe, and before he could stop himself, he stepped forward.

"You're right," he blurted, the words tumbling out too fast, almost tripping over each other in their rush to reach her. His voice was firm, but it trembled at the edges. "You're right, I was wrong. I shouldn't have carried the pot with my bare hands. I wasn't thinking—"

Isabella's head turned away sharply, her chin tilting upward in that impossibly regal way—like a queen dismissing a peasant—that always made him feel two inches tall.

"It's too late now," she said, her tone so cold it could've frosted the air between them. "I don't care about you anymore."

Cyrus stopped breathing.

The words didn't just hurt—they hit. Hard. Like an arrow straight to the gut, lodging deep where he couldn't pull it out. His ears rang faintly, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the sound of his own pounding heartbeat. She… didn't care?

Of course, Isabella was acting. In her past life, she'd been a top-tier actress—the kind who could burst into tears on cue, then win an award and a standing ovation for it. And right now? She was delivering an Oscar-worthy performance without even breaking a sweat.

Unfortunately for Cyrus, he bought every single word.

She refused to look at him now, her profile angled away with practiced indifference, like he was nothing but an unimportant extra in the background of her story. His mind spiraled fast and hard. Idiot. You absolute fool. How could you let her worry about you like that again?

When he finally spoke, his voice had changed—lower, quieter, with a trace of rawness that scraped his throat on the way out. "Isabella… I'm sorry. Truly. I should have been more careful. I didn't think—no, I wasn't thinking about how you'd feel. That was selfish."

She almost broke right there. The corner of her lips twitched upward, threatening a smile, but she quickly coughed into her fist, forcing her face back into its ice-queen composure. Her eyes narrowed just enough to hide the crack in her mask.

"That's fine, that's fine," she said breezily, waving a hand like she was dismissing a servant who'd only slightly overcooked the rice. "Just don't do it again next time."

"Mmh." Cyrus hummed, nodding once in solemn agreement—like he'd just signed an oath in blood.

"Good." She clapped her hands lightly—two brisk, businesslike taps that somehow felt like an order. "Now let's eat."

He turned toward the table, already reaching for the ladle, but before his hand could even curl around the handle, she swooped in like a hawk spotting prey.

"Don't worry. I'll serve the food for us."

His brows pulled together instantly, the tiniest furrow between them deepening. "No, it's fine. You don't have to—"

Her eyes narrowed, sharp as flint, and the glare she sent him could've melted steel. Unfortunately for her, Cyrus was not steel—he was stone. And like stone, his face didn't change an inch.

"You never let me do anything," she accused, voice edged with just enough dramatics to make the words sting.

His lips twitched—not quite a smile, but dangerously close. "Yet you're the one who does everything," he said, tone low and even. He wasn't just talking about soup, and they both knew it. He was talking about the way she'd taken the entire village under her wing as if it were hers to protect. About the way she always stepped in, even when no one asked.

She rolled her eyes like he'd just said the most ridiculous thing imaginable. "Stay put. It's just soup. I'll serve it."

Cyrus let out a slow breath, leaning back against the wall with that unshakable calm of his. His arms folded loosely across his chest, and the ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.

There it was—that stubborn streak he'd grown almost fond of. Almost. (Fine, he adored her—worshipped the ground she walked on—and maybe one day, she'd finally see it.)

The air between them warmed with the scent of the soup. Rich, savory chicken broth bubbled softly in the pot, steam curling upward in lazy swirls. The aroma wrapped around them, threaded with a faint smokiness from the fire.

Isabella moved with a certain grace, even in something as mundane as serving food. Her ladle dipped into the golden broth, her wrist flexing just so as she poured it into clay bowls.

Each motion was smooth, practiced—like she'd done it a thousand times before.

The ladle dipped into the pot with a quiet splash, steam curling upward and brushing against her cheeks.

She tilted her wrist with careful precision, letting the broth slide into the bowl without a single drop spilling.

Her hair, catching the flicker of the firelight, glinted in soft shades of pale gold and honey, each strand shifting like spun silk as it slipped over her shoulder.

When she leaned forward, it swung gently, brushing against her sleeve before swaying back into place, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke and her perfume into the air between them.

The loose sleeves of her dress slipped back slightly with each movement, revealing the delicate curve of her wrist and the faint shimmer of firelight against her skin.

"Where's Ophelia?" she asked, voice casual—too casual. Like someone laying down a card they didn't want you to notice was an ace. Her eyes stayed on the bowl in front of her, but her fingers stilled on the ladle, grip tightening just enough for her knuckles to pale.

"She is staying with Valen for the night," Cyrus replied without hesitation, his voice even, but his gaze flicked to her face—watching, measuring.

Isabella's hand froze mid-motion, the ladle hovering just above the bowl. A single drop of broth slipped from its edge and landed with a soft plop.