The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Isabella's hand stilled mid-motion, the wooden spoon hovering over the pot. For a beat, her mind wasn't in the room anymore.

Was Ophelia… avoiding her? The thought slipped in uninvited, sour and a little sharp. Or maybe—just maybe—she was too busy wrapped up in her shiny new man, all wrapped in that dizzying honeymoon haze.

Either way, it was fine. Totally fine. She didn't care. Not really. At least, that's what she told herself as she gave the spoon a small, dismissive stir, the faintest twitch tugging at the corner of her mouth like she might actually believe it if she kept moving.

Across from her, Cyrus hadn't moved. His gaze stayed fixed on her face, steady and quiet in a way that somehow felt heavier than words. He was reading her—the way her shoulders had gone just a little too straight, the tiny hitch in her breath, the faint tension in her fingers curling around the spoon's handle.

She placed the first portion into a bowl with slow precision, pretending she hadn't just been put under a microscope. Before she could reach for the second, Cyrus moved.

It wasn't just moving—it was swooping.

He was beside her in a heartbeat, his tall frame casting a shadow over hers as he reached for the bowl. His fingers brushed hers, warm and sure, before he took it from her grip.

But then, instead of walking away with it, he peered inside and frowned. A deep, serious frown, like the fate of the world rested in the contents of that bowl.

"This portion is too small for you," he said matter-of-factly, glancing up at her with those sharp, steady eyes. "You should eat more."

Isabella blinked at him, then tilted her head, her lips curling into a slow smirk. "What makes you think I'd be dishing out my own food first?"

"Because…" His voice dipped, almost as if the words were meant for her alone. "That's the only way it should be." His gaze didn't waver, steady and unblinking, as if he was daring her to argue — or maybe hoping she'd understand everything he wasn't saying out loud.

Her smirk faltered—just for a second—before it returned with a sharper edge. She jerked her chin toward something behind him. "Oh? So Glimora isn't important?"

Cyrus turned, and there she was—little Glimora, the fluffy white menace, staring up at him like he'd just personally insulted her bloodline.

The moment his eyes landed on her, Glimora whipped her head away with a huff so exaggerated it was almost theatrical.

Isabella's lips twitched, trying not to laugh. Cyrus, for his part, suppressed a smile so faint it barely curved the corner of his mouth. He crouched down, bowl in hand, until he was at Glimora's level.

"I apologize," he said softly, offering the bowl toward her. His voice was gentle, as though he were negotiating with royalty.

Glimora sniffed at it, tail flicking with attitude. She gave him another huff, louder this time, because apparently her outrage needed to be broadcast.

"If this isn't enough," Cyrus said with quiet sincerity, "you can always come back for more."

The transformation was immediate. Glimora's eyes lit up like tiny moons, and she took the bowl with an enthusiastic little hop. But before running off, she waddled close to Cyrus and pressed her fluffy body against his knee for the quickest, most grudging cuddle in history—like she was making sure he knew she wasn't forgiving him entirely… but also yes, she was.

Then she scampered away to start her dinner.

Isabella, watching with a hand on her hip, let out a faux-disapproving sigh. "Keep spoiling her and she's going to get too fat. I might have to stop feeding her soon."

Glimora froze mid-bite, her little ears twitching. Slowly, she turned her head to glare at Isabella, as though weighing whether murder was an appropriate response.

Isabella, already knowing what was coming, stared her down. "Go ahead. Prove my point."

And sure enough, Glimora's tiny bum turned toward her in the most dramatic display of silent defiance possible. Then—just to rub it in—she started doing a ridiculous little wiggle dance while chewing.

Isabella dragged a hand down her face, trying not to laugh, her tired expression utterly betrayed by the upward curve of her lips.

A low, deep chuckle rolled through the room. Cyrus.

It wasn't just a chuckle—it was the kind of laugh that seemed to wrap around her, warm and rich, tugging at something unsteady in her chest.

Her stomach did a weird flip, which she absolutely refused to acknowledge. She turned back to the pot, ladling food into two bowls—one for herself, one for him.

Cyrus didn't need to be asked; he took them both, carrying them over to the little setup they'd rigged together—a flat stone slab serving as a table, with two low, cushioned seats beside it.

The firelight danced along the curve of his jaw as they settled in, bowls in hand. The smell of herbs and slow-cooked meat drifted between them.

For one blissful moment, everything felt still. Just the quiet crackle of the fire, the soft shuffle of Glimora munching in the background, and the comfortable weight of food in their hands.

Then—

A sharp, playful whistle sliced through the air.

It was the kind of whistle meant to turn heads. The kind that carried mischief in its tone, smugness in its echo.

Isabella froze. The sound seemed to root her in place, her spoon hovering just above the broth.

Her fingers tightened around the handle, knuckles whitening. The easy warmth of the moment vanished like it had never been there.

And just like expected, Zyran pushed the curtain aside, the fabric whispering against his shoulder before pooling at his side. He leaned casually against the doorway, a wide grin stretching across his face, teeth catching the flicker of the firelight. His eyes swept the room in one quick, cocky pass before landing squarely on her, sparkling with mischief.

"Why? Were you waiting for me before you started eating?" he asked, the grin deepening, his tone a perfect mix of teasing and smug — like he already knew the answer and just wanted to hear her say it.