The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

The curtain swayed, and in stepped Zyran, all swagger and grin, like a man entering a party he owned. His hair was just slightly mussed, his robe hanging loose enough to show off his chest in that deliberate, "oh, I didn't notice" way.

The grin on his face was wide—too wide—the kind that said he was about to say something annoying and enjoy every second of it.

Isabella's eyes flicked up at him, her brow twitching just enough to betray the tiny flare of irritation she tried to hide. Her posture didn't change, still sitting with her shoulders back and chin high, but her voice came out cool, clipped. "Why are you here?" She let the question hang in the air for a moment before tilting her head, adding, "You weren't invited."

Zyran's hand flew to his chest, as if she'd shot an arrow straight through his heart. He stumbled forward a half-step in fake agony. "Not invited? Baby…" He let the word linger, dragging it out like honey over a spoon. "…your room doesn't even have a door. Pretty sure that's an open invitation."

Cyrus, seated quietly off to the side, didn't immediately speak. Instead, his gaze slid toward Isabella, slow and deliberate.

There was nothing sharp in his expression—just that calm, unshakable way he had of looking at her that somehow made it impossible to ignore him.

His brows lifted ever so slightly, as though asking a silent question: Do you see what he just said? Do you understand what that means?

And as expected, she did know exactly what he meant.

She let out a sigh, the kind that carried not just exasperation, but also the faint weight of having to explain something obvious. "It's not what you think," she said, leaning back in her chair. "A door, in this case, doesn't mean 'open invitation,' Zyran. It means privacy. Boundaries. The ability to shut certain people—" her eyes flicked pointedly at him, "—out. This place was built without one, and honestly, I never bothered to put one in because I didn't care enough to keep anyone out." She paused, arching a brow. "Clearly, that was a mistake."

"I'll help you make one for you tomorrow," Cyrus cut in smoothly, not a shred of hesitation in his voice.

The words landed like a drop of water into stillness. Isabella froze mid-breath, turning her head toward him. Even Zyran stopped his casual leaning against the wall, both of them caught off guard by the sheer straightforwardness of it.

Cyrus didn't flinch under the weight of their stares. He just looked at her, calm as ever, like offering his time, his effort, his hands for her sake was the most natural thing in the world.

Zyran's mouth pressed into a thin line. And to be honest—he had to admit—there was something impressive about that. Cyrus hadn't asked for anything in return, hadn't puffed up his chest or bragged. He'd just offered himself without hesitation.

The problem was… Isabella noticed.

He caught the faint shift in her expression, the way her eyes softened—not in mockery, not in amusement, but in something gentler. Something that maybe, just maybe, could be called affection.

And Zyran hated it. (Jealousy is a disease people, do not be like Zyran)

Because no matter what he did, she'd never given him that look. Not once. It wasn't just a glance—it was something softer, warmer, like her eyes had decided to let their guard down just for him.

And the worst part? She didn't even realize she was doing it. Yet here she was, aiming it at a man she kept insisting was nothing more than her brother.

"Yeah right… brother," he muttered under his breath, the words low enough not to be caught unless someone was really listening.

Then, in true Zyran fashion, he covered it with a loud, easy laugh. Still leaning on the wall, he turned his gaze on Cyrus, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Tomorrow? Please. I'll make her a door right now, on the spot."

The corners of Isabella's eyes twitched. Slowly, very slowly, she turned her head toward Zyran again, as if suddenly remembering that the annoying creature was still in the room, breathing her air.

"Cyrus said he'll make it tomorrow," she said, her voice dangerously calm. "And that is final."

Zyran leaned against the wall like he had all the time in the world, his smirk stretching slow and deliberate. "Of course," he drawled, "your brother. The noble, loyal, definitely-not-in-love-with-you Cyrus." He even gave a little nod toward Cyrus like they were in on some big, cosmic joke. "He loves you so much, and you—well, you love him too."

The way he said it was so casual, so dripping with fake innocence, it was almost impressive. Almost.

Isabella didn't blink. Not once. Her face was a masterclass in composure—chin up, eyes steady, lips barely curved in that neutral line that gave nothing away. Inside, though, his words were like nails on a chalkboard. Cyrus wasn't her brother. The thought alone made her want to roll her eyes so hard they'd see the back of her skull. But showing irritation would be giving Zyran exactly what he wanted, and she refused to hand him that victory.

Zyran, unfortunately, thrived on the silence. If she wasn't going to bite, he'd just keep talking until she cracked. He pushed off the wall, taking a lazy step forward, voice lowering into something dangerously close to a purr. "I mean, really, it's adorable. The way he looks at you, the way you look at him—" he placed a hand dramatically over his chest, "I swear, every time I see you two together, it's like I'm watching some epic, forbidden romance play out in real time."

Her eyes flicked sideways to Cyrus, who, of course, was as calm as ever. That only made her irritation bubble hotter.

"And honestly," Zyran continued, tilting his head like he was deep in thought, "if he is your brother, I think I'm going to need a family tree drawn up. Preferably with diagrams. And maybe arrows pointing to which ones are secretly in love with each other. You know, for clarity."

Isabella's lips pressed together. He was enjoying himself far too much.

"And you know," he added, stepping around the table now so he could catch her eye directly, "if he isn't your brother, then… well…" His grin turned wicked. "I can't wait to hear what excuse you come up with next."

Her patience was a thin, fraying thread. Slowly, deliberately, she turned her head toward Cyrus, ignoring Zyran entirely. "Cyrus, love," she said, the word sweet but laced with the faintest bite, "please get him out of here."

Cyrus's eyes lifted to hers, and for a fraction of a second, she caught it—something warm sparking in those calm features. He didn't show much, but she knew him well enough to notice the subtle shift. He'd heard the word love. And he liked it.

She hadn't actually expected him to move, given the obvious strength gap between him and Zyran. It wasn't even a contest. But then, to her absolute shock, Cyrus pushed his chair back and stood.

Her eyes widened instantly.