The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

"It tastes so amazing," Isabella said, completely deadpan.

The words dropped like pebbles in a silent pond—small, but enough to send ripples across the table.

For a full three seconds, no one moved. No one breathed. Every man at that table—yes, even Zyran—heard her voice and somehow processed it as: this bread is terrible.

Kian blinked slowly, as if double-checking his hearing. Cyrus's brow gave the faintest twitch, that rare sign that his brain was sprinting to catch up. Both men sat frozen in that quiet limbo of Oh no, she hates it, until—click—the realization finally sank in.

She'd said amazing.

The mental whiplash was almost comical. Kian's shoulders relaxed, but only halfway, while Cyrus expression smoothed back to its usual calm, though his eyes betrayed the flicker of really? was that necessary?.

Isabella bit the inside of her cheek, trying—failing—to hide her amusement. The corners of her lips threatened to curve up, but she held the line like a professional. She loved this. Playing with people's emotions was her sport, and she'd just scored big.

Those acting classes had not gone to waste. Sometimes she really did miss being an actress—getting to play with the script, control the audience, draw gasps and laughs without breaking a sweat. Oh, the power.

Zyran, of course, was just about to say something—probably a smug comment about her finally coming to her senses—but Isabella cut him off before he could even inhale.

"Let's eat."

Her tone was so cold, so abrupt, it was like someone had slammed the lid on a boiling pot. She didn't look at him, didn't look at anyone. Just turned back to her food with all the regal disinterest of a queen dismissing her court.

And just like that, silence reigned.

No one dared to push further, because here's the thing: with Isabella, you could never tell if she was serious. And if she was serious, you did not want to be the one who tested her patience.

Zyran, usually the loudest voice in any room, shut his mouth. He stared at his soup like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a fraction, and he decided—without much debate—to choose happiness. After all, this was the first genuine compliment she'd ever given him. Why ruin it by overthinking?

Still… confusion lingered at the edges.

Kian and Cyrus weren't much better. They, too, seemed caught between what just happened and don't care, moving on.

Cyrus, however, had his own quiet reason for lingering. He was still watching Isabella—not in suspicion, but in anticipation. He knew her habits better than anyone here. And one of those habits? If she enjoyed something he made, she told him. Out loud. Every time. And every time, it did something to him he could never fully explain—a quiet, grounding sense of fulfillment that sat deep in his chest.

So, while Kian went back to his soup and Zyran pretended not to stare, Cyrus remained still, patiently waiting for her next bite.

And Isabella, very aware of the eyes on her, continued eating as though the whole table wasn't hanging on her reaction.

The moment Isabella placed the soup in her mouth, paired with that bread—oh, to be honest, it was magnificent. A dangerous kind of magnificent. The kind of flavor that made you roll your eyes back like you were seeing heaven's gates. Which is exactly what she did, letting out a small, involuntary hum of appreciation before turning to Cyrus.

"Good job as always, Cyrus," she said with a warm smile that could have thawed a glacier.

Cyrus let out a slow, almost invisible breath, the kind you only notice if you're watching closely—which, of course, Kian and Zyran were. He'd clearly been holding it in, waiting for her verdict like a man awaiting trial. When she smiled, his own mouth softened into something rare and unguarded, a quiet exchange that needed no extra words.

Cue Zyran.

He scoffed—loud enough to be heard but soft enough to pretend it wasn't intentional. "Not even that good," he muttered under his breath, stabbing at his soup like it had personally offended him.

Isabella heard him. Oh, she definitely heard him. But she didn't even grant him a side glance. Instead, she took another calm, deliberate spoonful, as if his opinion were just background noise—like a buzzing fly she wasn't willing to swat yet.

Before Zyran could muster a follow-up jab, a soft scraping sound drew all eyes down. Glimora appeared at the edge of the table, dragging her own bowl across the floor with her mouth like a determined little merchant delivering goods. The sight was… admittedly adorable, her tail swishing as if she knew exactly how cute she looked.

That is, until she stopped at Cyrus's feet.

Isabella glanced down, brow quirking when she noticed Glimora staring up at him with that expectant, unblinking look. She didn't need to be a mind reader to know what that meant. The little creature was cashing in on a promise.

Cyrus looked down, and the change was instant—a faint, genuine smile warming his otherwise composed face. Without hesitation, he set his spoon down, the faint clink on the table signaling his intent to stand.

That's when Isabella's throat-clearing cut through the moment.

It wasn't loud, but it was sharp enough to make Cyrus pause mid-motion. His eyes immediately flicked to her, curiosity and a hint of wariness in his gaze.

Across the table, Kian and Zyran both froze, forks and spoons hovering mid-air like they'd been caught in some bizarre dinner-table game of statues. For a split second, the exact same thought crossed both their minds: Did she choke?

But when Isabella continued sitting there, perfectly fine—no coughs, no watery eyes—suspicion replaced concern. And suspicion, naturally, turned to curiosity. Slowly, both men turned their heads toward Cyrus, as though he might explain.

Cyrus didn't. He didn't even seem aware of their eyes on him. His attention was locked entirely on Isabella, searching her face with that quiet, careful way he always did when she spoke without speaking. And there it was—that silent understanding that made words unnecessary.

Her expression didn't change, but her meaning was loud and clear: Sit down.

Cyrus gave a subtle nod—nothing dramatic, nothing showy—and instead of rising, he eased back into his chair.

The exchange was quick, almost imperceptible, but not to Zyran. Oh no. Zyran caught everything.

And it unsettled him.

Not just because she'd silenced the room with nothing more than a look — like she was the one deciding who lived and who skipped dinner tonight. Not just because it felt like something private had just passed between them right in front of him.

No, it was the ease of it. The familiarity. The way Cyrus didn't question her for even half a second.

Kian's eyes flicked toward Zyran, catching the subtle tightness in his jaw, and he almost smirked. Almost. He wasn't above enjoying a little drama at the table, but he also wasn't stupid enough to add fuel.

Isabella, for her part, seemed perfectly at ease now, calmly resuming her meal as if nothing had happened. Cyrus quietly followed suit, though his hand lingered near his spoon like he was still half-thinking about Glimora's expectant gaze at his feet.

And Zyran? He sat there, still holding his spoon in midair, his thoughts a tangled knot of irritation, curiosity, and something else he couldn't quite name.