The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

"I told you already—there is no soup for you. You're not welcome here."

Isabella's head snapped toward Zyran so fast you'd think her neck was auditioning for a fight scene. Her voice was sharp enough to slice through bone.

She was so sick of him. Sick of the smug tilt of his mouth, sick of the glint in his eyes that said he thought he knew something she didn't, sick of the way he stood there like he was the main character in a story she never agreed to be part of.

How dare he ruin her moment? And not just ruin it—slither into it, like an uninvited snake deciding to make itself comfortable in the middle of a sun-warmed rock. Ugh. Zyran was something else.

"But there's soup for him?" Zyran asked, pointing in Kian's direction like the man had just committed a felony. His voice dripped disbelief, outrage, and maybe a little wounded pride. "How is it you'll feed him but not me?"

His eyes were wide like she'd just told him gravity didn't apply to him anymore. How could she still be excluding him after everything he'd done for her?

After he gave her bread? Bread!.

And not just any bread. Oh no, this wasn't your average crumbly, dry, peasant-tier loaf. This was the good stuff. The kind of bread that would make poets weep and priests consider breaking their vows. Imported—no, smuggled—from the underworld itself.

Do you know how many royal bakers in his castle nearly started a fistfight over who got to knead the dough for her? He had to personally stop two of them from trying to poison each other over the honor. (Lord knows what he told those poor women)

He didn't even know exactly where Isabella was from—hell, maybe she was from the heavens themselves—but he knew she wasn't from this place. She was too advanced, too polished, too… everything.

So he'd guessed—brilliantly, in his opinion—that if she was used to eating meat every day like the people here, maybe she'd like something different for once. A change of pace. Something thoughtful. That was why he brought it up here.

For nothing else. Only to be a good person.

…Okay, fine. That last part was a little bit of a lie. He'd brought the bread because he wanted her to be impressed. He wanted her to want him. He wanted her to take one bite and think, Wow, maybe Zyran isn't so bad after all.

If he had any sense—and he liked to think he did—he knew better than to try the old tricks on Isabella. Not here. Not now. Not with the way she looked at him these days.

Once upon a time, sure, he could've sent her gifts. Lavished her in gold. Stacked her space with silks and jewels until it looked like a dragon's hoard with a faint floral scent. Back then, she might have smiled and said thank you. Maybe.

But that was before. Before everything between them went up in flames and turned to ash. Now? If he dared to send her so much as a ribbon, she'd probably toss it straight into a fire while holding his gaze the entire time—just to make sure he understood exactly where he stood.

No, gifts were off the table. That battlefield was lost.

He needed another weapon. Something softer, sneakier. Something she wouldn't immediately see coming and set ablaze out of pure spite.

Food.

Not just any food—the kind that made people close their eyes on the first bite. The kind that melted away bad moods faster than a well-placed apology. The kind that could make even the grumpiest warlord pause and say, Fine, I'll forgive you. But only because this is delicious.

It was dangerous territory, sure, but if he played it right… maybe he could get past those walls she kept welded shut.

If he couldn't beat Cyrus at his own game — all that soft-spoken kindness, those patient smiles, that maddeningly steady presence — and he couldn't outdo Kian for… well, for simply being Kian (to this day, Zyran still didn't understand what on earth Isabella saw in him), then surely, he could find a way in through her stomach.

Right? Which woman didn't love food? Especially when neither Cyrus nor Kian seemed capable of offering her anything beyond the same endless menu of meat and soup.

And honestly, calling it "meat" was generous — at least, back in the days before Isabella, or whenever those two were off hunting alone.

Half the time it was raw, bloody slabs hacked straight from whatever unlucky creature wandered too close, slapped on a rock, and called dinner like it was some great culinary achievement.

The only reason soup even existed in this village, and the only reason they hadn't keeled over from some terrible meat-related tragedy, was because of Isabella. And no, he wasn't being petty for thinking this way. (He absolutely was.) He simply believed it was fair: they had their weapons, and he had his.

That was why he'd brought the bread today. A peace offering disguised as carbs. A sneaky little trap in the form of a golden crust and soft crumb.

And no, of course he wasn't planning on bringing bread every day. That would be lazy. He had a whole strategy mapped out in his head.

Tomorrow? Maybe honey-dipped dates. Or fresh figs. Something decadent just to remind them there was more to life than gnawing on animal carcasses.

The day after? Something spicy. And slowly—subtly—he'd increase the quantities. A little more, a little more, until she couldn't imagine a day without whatever he brought her.

It was genius. It was foolproof.

And it was currently being thrown back in his face.

"Of course there's food for him," Isabella said, her voice cool but not cold. She gave Zyran a once-over that felt like she was measuring him for a coffin. "There always will be."

Zyran blinked. The words landed with a weight he wasn't prepared for.

And then she added, "He's different."

Different? Oh, so now we're playing the different card? Zyran could practically hear the capital D in her tone. Like Kian was some kind of rare gem and he—Zyran—was a cheap imitation you found in a back alley stall.

Zyran didn't move, didn't speak, but inside, he was already making a list of comebacks. None of them were mature. All of them were fantastic.

Because if Kian was "different," then Zyran was going to have to be exceptional.