The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Cyrus's chair scraped back against the floor. The sound alone made Isabella's head turn—but it was the way he rose, calm and deliberate, that had Zyran's attention. Not bad.

Most men would've hesitated, maybe thrown some awkward excuse about "not wanting to get involved" or "not wanting to start trouble"

But Cyrus? He didn't flinch. He stood like someone who'd made up his mind the moment Isabella spoke, like there was no question about whether he would follow through.

Zyran's grin tilted slightly. Interesting.

He was starting to realize something—dealing with Cyrus and Kian wasn't going to be the easy, predictable game he'd assumed. Neither of them seemed even remotely intimidated by him. Not in the way most beastmen were when faced with someone of his… capabilities.

Kian had already proved that earlier, practically biting his head off with a threat—despite having watched Zyran casually display the kind of strength that could've flattened him in seconds. And now here was Cyrus, about to walk right into the same mistake. About to swing at him—or at least try—just because Isabella asked.

It was almost poetic.

Zyran could've laughed. A man ready to die just because she wanted it? That was… amazing. Actually amazing.

In fact, it was so amazing that for the first time in a long while, Zyran was genuinely impressed.

He might have been an egotistical flirt most days, but he wasn't blind—this level of loyalty didn't come cheap.

It was rare. And it was a problem for him. Because if Cyrus could win Isabella's heart with loyalty like that, Zyran's usual tricks wouldn't cut it. He'd need a different strategy. Something sharper. Smarter.

Still, no matter how much he respected the guy's guts, Zyran knew the reality—Cyrus didn't stand a chance against him unless Zyran allowed it. And right now? He had no interest in letting things spiral into a fight.

For one, he didn't feel like rearranging the room just to prove a point. And two… well, as much as he'd never say it out loud, he knew how much that would upset Isabella. And upsetting Isabella wasn't on his to-do list tonight. Not seriously, anyway.

So before she could even open her mouth to tell Cyrus to stand down, Zyran stepped in.

"I'm not sure you want to do that," he said smoothly, voice dripping with the kind of casual confidence that implied he'd already won. "Because I'm here to give her something that will make her overjoyed. And you want her to always be happy, right?"

The words landed like a hook.

Cyrus paused mid-step, his jaw tightening as his eyes flicked between Zyran and Isabella. The air between them seemed to stretch, heavy with the unspoken question: was he really going to swing, or was he going to listen?

Zyran could see it—the faint hitch in his movement, the moment of doubt. Oh, that was delicious. He didn't even need magic to win this round; all it took was dangling Isabella's happiness in front of him like bait.

From her seat, Isabella's brow furrowed just slightly. She looked at Cyrus like she was… reassessing him. The tiniest wrinkle of confusion crossed her face, and she felt it—the flicker of realization that maybe, just maybe, Cyrus's devotion to her wasn't purely platonic.

How had she missed it until now? Was she blind?

She'd always assumed Cyrus was just… nice. Really, ridiculously nice to everyone. The type who would help an old lady carry groceries, or go out of his way to fix something for a stranger without expecting anything in return. That was just who he was.

But now that she was actually thinking about it, really looking at him… maybe he wasn't nice to everyone. Not like this.

Sure, Cyrus treated others kindly. But her? There was an extra softness there. A weight in his attention that she hadn't quite recognized until now.

She didn't know how to feel about it. And honestly, now wasn't the time to unpack the emotional grenade Zyran had just lobbed into her lap.

Cyrus turned to her, eyes locking on hers in quiet question—should he go ahead? Should he follow through, even if it meant smashing Zyran through the nearest wall?

She shook her head, a tiny, deliberate motion telling him to sit back down.

Cyrus obeyed without a word, lowering himself back into his seat.

In her mind, Isabella was still reeling—not from Zyran's theatrics, but from the fact that Cyrus had actually been ready to throw hands with Zyran over her.

Which was insane. Completely insane.

Then again… maybe it wasn't. If magic was taken off the table, maybe Cyrus could take him. Possibly.

She shoved that thought aside before it could linger.

Zyran, of course, took her lack of outright rejection as an open invitation and moved to sit down like he owned the place.

Isabella rolled her eyes. "The soup won't be enough for all of us," she said flatly, her voice carrying just the right amount of dry dismissal.

It was a weak attempt at eviction, but it was the best she had on short notice. If he was here for food, maybe—maybe—he'd leave when he realized there wasn't enough to go around. (Don't mind her—she was just desperate to get him out of the room before he stirred up more chaos.)

But Zyran wasn't buying it. Not even for a second.

He'd seen the massive cauldron on his way in, filled to the brim with more than enough soup to feed four grown beastmen. His eyes glinted as he smiled at her, a look that screamed, Yeah, baby, I believe you.

And then, without breaking eye contact, he lifted one hand in a lazy, almost bored gesture.

In an instant, plates appeared on the table, each one holding a perfect, steaming loaf of freshly baked bread. The golden crusts crackled faintly, the smell so rich and warm it practically wrapped itself around the room.

The moment Isabella saw them, her carefully maintained irritation cracked—utterly, completely shattered.

Her eyes went wide. "Oh my god… bread!"

She didn't even realize she'd moved until her fingers were already curling around the warm loaf closest to her. The heat seeped into her palms, and for a brief, blissful moment, the entire conversation about doors, brothers, and near fistfights ceased to exist.

While all their attention was locked on the bread—its golden crust still steaming faintly, the warm, yeasty scent curling through the room like a siren's call—they completely missed the fact that Kian was standing at the entrance.

Well… almost completely. Zyran had clocked him the moment the guy's shadow stretched across the doorway. Of course he had. But did he care enough to acknowledge him? Absolutely not. Kian could wait his turn.

Right now, Zyran was far too entertained watching Isabella's eyes light up over something as simple as bread. There was a softness to her expression, the kind you didn't waste on background characters like Kian—not when Zyran was the main event. So, without so much as a nod in Kian's direction, Zyran leaned back slightly in his chair, letting the noise of the room fade while he stayed locked on her.

Kian could stew in the doorway for all he cared.