The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Isabella's face went perfectly blank for a beat—no twitch, no frown, no smile—just pure emotional Wi-Fi outage.

Then she slowly turned her head toward Cyrus, catching the guilty worry already stamped across his face.

She knew that look. It was his oh no, I think I just ruined my chances of going to heaven expression. The same one he wore every single time he was about to apologize to her as if she might strike him down on the spot.

Before he could even open his mouth, she cut in gently.

"It's okay. I understand," she said, her lips curling into a warm smile just for him.

Cyrus visibly unclenched, though his shoulders stayed stiff like he still expected lightning to strike.

From the other side of the table, Kian's deep voice finally broke through the quiet like a king making a decree.

"We should eat. The soup is at the perfect temperature now."

Isabella turned her head toward him, meeting that steady, unbothered gaze.

"Yeah, we should," she replied, though her attention drifted almost instantly to the piece of bread in front of her. She squinted at it like it had personally offended her, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"Worried about poison," Zyran's voice came lazily from across the table, pitched just loud enough for her to hear, "when you should be worried about a love potion."

Her head snapped up, eyes locking on his—because of course he was already staring at her, lounging like a smug cat who'd found the cream.

"If I really wanted to do something," he continued, his tone walking that fine line between teasing and deadly serious, "I'd have done it a long time ago without all these dramatics."

Kian's spoon paused halfway to his mouth. Cyrus's hand froze in mid-air with the bread. Isabella just raised a brow at Zyran like she was deciding whether to roll her eyes or throw the bread at his face.

"Eat up now," Zyran added, his voice suddenly dropping the playfulness, "it's getting late. And I wouldn't like you to eat late."

He kept his eyes on her, steady and unblinking, and for a moment it felt like the entire table was holding its breath.

Isabella let out a sigh—caught somewhere between relief and suspicion. She wasn't quite ready to lower her guard; trust didn't come easy, not after the kinds of tricks Zyran had up his sleeves. But then again there was something about Zyran's casual confidence that made the bread seem… less threatening. Maybe Cyrus was just being, well… Cyrus.

Kian shifted beside her, leaning back slightly as his eyes flickered to the bread in front of her, then back to Zyran. He didn't say a word—just the faintest twitch of his lips hinted he was definitely not enjoying this little standoff.

The air between the four of them was thick with unspoken tension, the kind that could turn into a joke or a fight in the blink of an eye. It was a weird mix of suspicion and comfort—a messy, chaotic energy that somehow still felt like… home.

Finally, Isabella reached out, picked up the bread, and took a small bite.

Zyran leaned forward ever so slightly, Cyrus tensed like he was about to leap across the table, and Kian just kept watching, unreadable.

And if you've already guessed what happened next—no, you haven't.

"If there is one thing I would never do…" Isabella began, her voice low but deliberate. She let the words roll out slowly, like she was unspooling a warning. Her face smoothed into an expression so unreadable it could have been carved into stone. And, oh, there it was—just the faintest curl of disgust in her eyes, enough to make the air tighten.

Across from her, Zyran's spark dimmed like someone had poured a bucket of cold water over it. He didn't even wait for the rest—his brain, ever dramatic, had already leapt to the worst ending. And the way she was looking? Yeah, this wasn't heading toward "I love the bread, Zyran" territory.

From the side, Cyrus and Kian shared a glance. Just the quickest flicker of eye contact. No words. No smirks. But the meaning? Oh, it was there. And as if they'd rehearsed it, the corners of both their mouths twitched—not full smiles, but something close enough to be dangerous. Relief and mockery mingled together like wine and poison.

Relief, because Cyrus—serene, calm Cyrus—felt a little more certain now that Isabella wouldn't be lured away by the devil in smug clothing over something as humble as bread. Mockery, because Kian, who rarely cared to involve himself in petty squabbles, was quietly savoring the spectacle of Zyran's ego getting kneecapped in real time.

Zyran, of course, noticed the glance. Noticed and filed it away with the rest of his grievances tonight. (And wow, the list was getting long.) His arms folded over his chest as he waited for her to finish, doing his best to look like he didn't care while absolutely caring with every fiber of his being.

Isabella let the silence stretch, almost cruel in how she held it. She scanned each of them like she was measuring them for trouble, then finally released a slow exhale.

"…I would never lie about the way a food tastes."

Her voice was steady, but the air shifted with the weight of the statement. Zyran's eyes dropped—no, glared—at the bread in front of her like it had personally betrayed him. A muscle in his jaw ticked. This bread was a delicacy in the Underworld, something mortals would trade their gold, their labor, maybe even their souls for. And here she was, about to pass judgment on it like it was a random chunk of half-burnt flatbread from the village fire pit.

He could already feel the heat rising behind his ears. What had gone wrong? He'd done everything right—called in the best bakers, bribed the grumpiest gatekeepers, risked looking like he was trying too hard. And now? Now it was about to be dismissed in front of Cyrus and Kian. Again.

"And the way this bread tastes?" Isabella asked, finally, her tone unreadable as she studied the piece in her hand.

She didn't rush. Oh no, she was deliberate—taking the time to chew, to savor, to consider, as if she were deciding the fate of kingdoms instead of judging a loaf of bread. Her lashes lowered while she focused on the texture, the flavor. And the longer she stayed silent, the more Zyran felt like he was sitting in the world's most unfair trial.

At this point, he really didn't want to hear her verdict anymore. Not because he didn't care—gods, he cared too much—but because the thought of being dismissed again in front of those two was unbearable. His pride could only take so many blows in one night.

"It tastes so amazing."