The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

The tension after dinner wasn't the loud kind—it was the simmering, "everyone's pretending to be normal but clearly isn't" kind. Clay bowls clinked as Cyrus stacked them neatly, the muscles in his bare forearms flexing with each movement, his quiet, focused precision the picture of domestic calm.

Zyran, on the other hand, had no intention of leaving quietly. Standing at the doorway, one hand holding the edge of the curtain-like cotton that separated the inside from the cool night air, he turned just enough so his voice would carry.

"When you cook tomorrow," he began, pausing dramatically like this was some royal decree, "make my own portion. Because I was starved tonight. And it's not fair that you get a huge portion, while I—" he gestured at himself like the victim of some ancient injustice "—get what even a baby beast would complain about."

Isabella, seated cross-legged on the low bench with Glimora curled in her lap, froze mid-stroke as she brushed her fingers through the fluffy white fur. Glimora was still glaring at Zyran like she'd been personally robbed, little head tilted to keep him in her sights.

Isabella glanced from Zyran to Cyrus. Cyrus, still crouched over the bowls, didn't even fully turn toward him. Without looking up, he replied evenly, "If you're that hungry, come out before sunset and help me cook."

It was an innocent enough offer, but to Zyran, the suggestion was equivalent to asking him to plow a field with his bare hands. His eyes widened. "Cook? I never cook. I would never cook. I am a prince."

The moment the word "prince" left his mouth, the air in the room shifted—mostly toward skepticism. Cyrus didn't even pause in wiping down a bowl. Kian, standing near the corner, didn't say a word, but there was a faint, fleeting shift in his expression that said sure you are.

To them, the "prince" claim sounded absurd. If Zyran were truly a prince, someone in this little village would've heard of it by now. And if he was a prince… well, he was currently a prince with soup stains on his sleeve from Glimora's earlier "attack."

Isabella just blinked at him like, uh-huh, and I'm the Queen of Moonlight.

Glimora, however, was the most openly unimpressed of all. Her ears flicked back, and she tilted her head, her glare sharpening into a look that clearly said: So, you not only stole my soup, but you also can't cook your own food? Pathetic.

Her fluffy tail swished once, in that slow, deliberate way that meant judgment had been passed.

Zyran saw that tail flick. He saw her tiny shake of the head, and something in him sagged dramatically—like the universe itself was conspiring against him. "Everyone is always against me here," he muttered under his breath, loud enough for the whole room to hear.

In truth, the man felt a ridiculous sort of sadness—not the real kind, but the self-indulgent, I'm the tragic hero in this scene kind. Because if he truly wanted Isabella, this would've been easy. He could've simply swept her away to the underworld—problem solved.

But no. He knew her too well now. He'd been watching her for weeks, memorizing the way she moved through the village, how she laughed with the locals, how she always sat facing the door like she wanted to see every person who entered. She loved this place.

Kidnapping her would be the fastest way to get her to hate him forever. And Zyran—chaotic, shameless Zyran—wasn't stupid enough to play that card.

So instead, he simply stood there, looking at all three of them… and Glimora. Always Glimora. "Just you wait…" he said, voice low and mysterious.

Everyone in the room paused. Even Kian tilted his head slightly, as if expecting a continuation. Cyrus straightened his back but didn't turn. Isabella arched an eyebrow, waiting.

"…I am going to sleep tonight. In my room," Zyran finished, with the kind of anticlimactic flourish that sucked the tension out of the air like a popped balloon.

Isabella's face went flat. "Bruh. Really?"

Kian didn't even react beyond the barest flicker of his eyes toward the door. His entire posture radiated "let's move on already," but his gaze was locked on Zyran in silent expectation.

Zyran turned that look right back on him, and his expression was pure what is your problem. "Why are you forcing me out? Cyrus gets to sleep in the same room as her, and they're not even related."

That made Isabella instantly lean forward, eyes narrowing like a cat about to swipe. "He sleeps at the far end of the room. That is none of your business. Already. Leave this room."

Her tone had that finality to it—the kind that should've told Zyran the conversation was over. Should've.

But Zyran, of course, was Zyran. He raised both hands slowly, palms out in mock surrender, his grin lazy and unbothered. "Okay, okay. I'm next door. If I hear anything suspicious going on, I'm coming here and joining the both of you."

Isabella's jaw dropped for a second before she closed her eyes, groaned, and ran her hand down her face like she could physically wipe his existence from her life. "God save me from this soul," she muttered, fingers threading through her hair in the most done gesture imaginable.

Cyrus, meanwhile, didn't so much as blink at Zyran's nonsense. He just… gave him face. Which in Cyrus language meant ignoring him entirely and continuing to align the bowls with that meticulous care he applied to everything.

Zyran lingered for a beat longer, possibly to see if Isabella would say something else, possibly because annoying her was his sport of choice. When neither she nor Cyrus gave him more attention, he finally turned on his heel with a flair that was far too dramatic for someone just walking out of a doorway.

Some seconds passed as Isabella sat there, shoulders relaxing a little, and watched both men go their separate ways. Kian, silent as ever, slipped out with the calm, detached air of someone who could've been made entirely of shadow.

But then… her mind caught on something.

Wait.

Kian had followed Zyran. Zyran had said "next door." That meant…

Her eyes narrowed. He stayed in the room next to hers? And he didn't mention it?

Oh.

Oh.

Fine by her, then. She didn't care. Nope. Not one bit. She absolutely, positively was not bothered at all. She was simply… filing that information away in a very neat, very petty little drawer in her mind for later use.

Her lips pressed together in that small, dangerous smile she got when she was definitely thinking of ways to make someone regret something.

She didn't even glance toward the doorway again.

Instead, she turned to face Cyrus, who was now standing back and admiring the perfectly stacked bowls like an artist checking their finished work. He'd arranged them by size, weight, and apparently vibe, because Cyrus did nothing halfway.

She opened her mouth—

A loud noise exploded from behind her.

It wasn't the soft shuffle of footsteps, or the whisper of fabric being moved. No. This was a thud. A very pointed, very intentional thud—the kind that made the thin curtain sway and the wood beam above it hum with the impact.

The sound came from the entrance.