The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Isabella ladled out a modest portion of soup into a small bowl, deliberately tiny, as if she were rationing gold. She didn't place the bowl directly in front of Zyran—oh no, that would be too easy. Instead, she set it slightly to the side, closer to the edge of the table, like it was some delicate artifact he might accidentally spill or break. Kian, who had been hovering nearby like a shadow, followed silently behind her, his expression unreadable but his presence a quiet reminder that he was firmly on her side.

Isabella took her seat with a practiced ease, crossing one leg over the other and settling into the chair like it was her throne. She adjusted the folds of her garment and gave a small, satisfied sigh—the kind that said, I am queen here, and this is my kingdom.

Zyran, on the other hand, was already on full battle mode. His sharp eyes darted from his own bowl to Kian's, then back to Cyrus's, and finally to Isabella's. His lips pressed into a thin line as he mentally tallied up the portions, and his brows furrowed with exaggerated offense. Why was his soup the smallest? Was this some cosmic joke? A subtle insult? A declaration of war? His nostrils flared slightly, like a beast on the hunt.

Cyrus, ever the picture of calm and collected, tore a piece off the loaf of bread resting nearby. His eyes met Isabella's, steady and unflinching, as he said quietly, "I'll have the first piece, in case it's poisoned."

Isabella's eyes snapped wide open. This was not news—no, this was déjà vu. How many times had Cyrus made this gallant, if slightly ridiculous, offer to take poison for her? Too many to count. And yet, every time it stabbed at her heart like the first time. Her breath caught, and her hand shot out, grabbing his wrist in a grip firm enough to stop a runaway cart.

"Are you insane?" she demanded, voice sharp but laced with something softer—fear, worry, a desperate need to keep him safe.

Kian's brow lifted in silent disapproval as he stared at the two hands entwined—Isabella's slender fingers wrapped protectively around Cyrus's hands—hands that were unexpectedly gentle and smooth, a quiet contrast to the calm strength he carried.

The sight clearly disturbed him, even if he didn't say a word. His jaw clenched subtly, like he wanted to say something but decided better of it.

Zyran, who had been eyeballing the size of his soup portion like it personally offended his royal dignity, paused mid-everything. His gaze flicked over to Isabella's hand—smooth, delicate, basically a work of art—and then snapped over to Cyrus's hands. Rough, calloused, and honestly kind of ugly in the way only someone who's been doing actual work can have.

Now, don't get it twisted—Cyrus's hands were actually pretty decent, pretty infact. But Zyran? Nah, he was seeing what his green-eyed jealousy wanted him to see. In his mind, Cyrus's hands looked like they belonged to a grumpy troll who'd spent too much time punching rocks, and Kian's? Don't even get him started. To Zyran, those two sets of hands were the absolute definition of "ugly," like they'd been through a blender and come out worse for wear.

And the whole time, Zyran was thinking: Why am I the only one who can see this? (Seriously, why is this man always so full of jealousy? 🤣)

"Why would you taste it first just to confirm if there's poison in it?" Isabella began, her words tumbling out fast as she spiraled into panic mode. "And what if there is—what will happen—"

Her voice faltered as Zyran cut in with a chuckle, smooth and mocking. "Heh, he's a snake beastman, Isabella. Most poisons don't even touch snake beastmen, especially someone like Cyrus."

He tore off a chunk of bread, the gesture casual but deliberate, and popped it into his mouth. The crunch echoed through the room, a silent challenge. His eyes flicked to Isabella as if to say, See? No poison. Relax.

The confidence in Zyran's voice was undeniable, and his smirk deepened like he knew a secret he wasn't quite ready to share. His ease in the moment was both infuriating and oddly reassuring.

Isabella tilted her head ever so slightly, eyes narrowing as she turned to Cyrus like she was trying to catch him in a lie he hadn't even told yet. Her gaze scanned his face—soft but sharp at the same time—searching for that little twitch or shift that would prove Zyran's snide comment had teeth.

Meanwhile, Zyran was watching them like a hawk who'd been personally wronged by the existence of doves. His jaw clenched. His shoulders rolled back. Then his eyes darted—back to Isabella… back to Cyrus… and then right back to Isabella again.

And that's when the irritation hit him like a wave.

Why. The hell. Was Cyrus still making eye contact with her?

Seriously, was the man running on some sort of romantic autopilot? Because last Zyran checked, Cyrus had already committed two crimes against his sanity today:

One—he'd eaten the bread.

Two—he'd told Zyran to leave if there was no soup for him. Rude? Absolutely. Necessary? Also absolutely. (Mind you, this is according to Zyran)

Those were already unforgivable offenses. But now? This? This random, lingering, soft-focus eye contact?

For what reason?!

Zyran could practically hear his own blood boiling. Was this Cyrus's thing now? Slow-blinking like some lovesick cat every time Isabella so much as existed in his line of sight? If this kept up, next time Zyran was making damn sure he was physically wedged in the middle, elbows out, creating a human barricade between them.

Gosh. All of this was so annoying.

His jaw tightened as he decided, on the spot, that this was personal. Cyrus was doing this just to irritate him. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't innocent. It was psychological warfare.

"What did he not tell you?" Zyran's voice cut through the moment, sharp but almost lazy, like he was tossing a fishing line to pull her attention back where it belonged—on him.

Isabella blinked, dragged out of Cyrus's stare and reeled straight back into Zyran's orbit. Her brow furrowed just a little, but she didn't speak.

"Of course he didn't," Zyran went on, his tone soaked in mock certainty. "Maybe he just loves seeing you worried."

And with that, he dropped his gaze back to his soup like the conversation was over. But it wasn't over. Oh no. He'd planted the seed. Now he could sip and wait.

Cyrus, however, froze. It was subtle, but Zyran caught it—the faint stiffness in his shoulders, the slight pause in his breathing. His spoon hovered mid-air, as if the simple act of eating soup had just become the most complicated task in the world.

That tiny reaction told Zyran everything. He was right. He'd hit a nerve.

Cyrus's mind had clearly jumped straight back to earlier—to the moment Isabella had been upset with him. To the way she'd reacted, her voice laced with worry because of something he'd done.

But here was the twist: this time, it hadn't been on purpose.