The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

The sound hit like a crack in the air—loud, sharp, and impossible to ignore.

Cyrus reacted instantly. One second, he was standing there, calm and collected, the picture of quiet composure; the next, he pivoted on his heel so fast that loose strands of his red hair whipped across his shoulders.

His shoulders squared, eyes narrowing in alert focus as he locked on to the source of the noise. It wasn't just a glance—it was a full body turn, the kind of movement that said his entire mind had gone from peaceful domestic cleanup to protect mode in a heartbeat.

Isabella saw his expression and instantly recognized it: that guarded, sharp-edged look he got when danger was a possibility. A little spike of warmth hit her chest—he always moved like this for her—but it was quickly drowned out by the sheer curiosity of what the heck was going on.

She turned in her seat, following the direction of Cyrus's line of sight. Her brows furrowed, then lifted, then furrowed again in pure disbelief.

Oh, no. No.

Her lips parted to say something, but before she could even figure out what, Zyran's voice drifted in from the room next to hers, lazy and far too pleased with himself.

"I told you I would make the door for you on the spot."

For a moment, her brain just… paused.

Then it clicked.

Her jaw dropped. Her eyes narrowed. "Heck nah."

Her hand slammed against her thigh, the sound sharp in the otherwise quiet room. "What is in this man?" she hissed, whipping her head toward the wall like she could glare straight through it.

What the hell was wrong with him? Why was he like this? And why, for the love of all things sane, did he think that was an acceptable sentence to say in any context?

She leaned back slightly, like distance alone might protect her from his madness. "Why the hell is he so strange? Why the freaking hell—" She cut herself off, throwing one hand into the air in a silent "I give up."

Across the room, Cyrus was still frozen, halfway between defensive readiness and utter confusion. His gaze flicked briefly to her, then back toward the sound, clearly trying to decide if he needed to go deal with whatever Zyran had just done.

Meanwhile, in Isabella's arms, Glimora had gone from peacefully lounging to full-body tension in an instant. The little mythical beast's fur puffed up, ears pinned back, and her big blue eyes went wide in alarm.

The moment the sound had hit, she'd stiffened, her whole body shuddering like the echo had crawled under her skin. And now, as Zyran's voice carried through the wall, something in her expression shifted—from startled to offended.

Oh, she was mad.

She wriggled in Isabella's arms, claws flexing like she was this close to launching herself straight into the next room.

Her tail lashed against Isabella's side as she made a little huffing noise, her gaze locked in the direction of the "enemy."

If she could talk, Isabella knew exactly what would be coming out of her mouth: First, he'd stolen her soup. Her soup. Secondly, he had the audacity to admit he couldn't even make his own food, so clearly he was a repeat offender in the crime of stealing other people's food. And now? Now he wanted to keep her awake by—what—renovating in the middle of the night?

This wasn't just irritating anymore. This was personal.

In Glimora's mind, the math was simple: Zyran = a demon. A soup-stealing, sleep-disturbing demon.

Isabella looked down at the small, tense body in her arms, trying to read her expression. The trembling could have been from fear, sure—but those narrowed eyes? That was rage.

The fury in Glimora's gaze made her even cuter, which was saying something, but Isabella also knew she was too shaken to actually be set loose.

So she did what she always did—lowered her voice into that soft, coaxing tone that Glimora seemed powerless against, the kind of voice that sounded like it was dipped in honey and wrapped in warm blankets.

"Hey, baby… what's all this, hmm? Who made my sweet girl upset?" Isabella murmured, tilting her head as if she were listening to Glimora's silent complaints. Her words came out like a secret between them, as though the rest of the world didn't exist.

Cyrus stood with his weight settled into one hip, shoulders relaxed, but his eyes never left them.

He didn't say a word—he'd seen this ritual before—but there was the faintest, unshakable smile tugging at his lips.

Isabella pressed small kisses to the top of Glimora's head, letting her lips sink into the silky white fur. Her nose caught that faint scent of snow and something sweet—like wild berries in the cold. "My pretty girl," she whispered between kisses, "you're safe. Mama's here."

Her fingers moved in slow, practiced strokes down the back of Glimora's neck, each motion calculated to untangle not just fur, but feelings. She traced the curve of her spine with light pressure, letting her nails barely scratch over the fluff in a way that always made Glimora melt.

And melt she did.

Gradually, the tension in her tiny frame began to ebb away, like snow softening under the morning sun. The puffed-up fur started to settle, each strand smoothing until she looked more cloud than storm. Her tiny claws, which had been curled in battle-ready defiance, quietly retracted.

The furious little growls rumbling in her throat began to fizzle into softer, reluctant huffs—like she still wanted to be mad, but Isabella's affection was dismantling her anger brick by brick.

"Yeah… that's my girl," Isabella cooed, tilting her head so her cheek brushed against Glimora's.

Cyrus's eyes softened even more, watching the way Isabella handled her mythical white beast like she was cradling the most fragile piece of glass in existence. His gaze lingered—not on Glimora—but on Isabella's smile.

With one final, dramatic sigh—so dramatic Isabella was convinced she was performing for an audience—Glimora curled herself tighter into Isabella's arms, folding into a perfect little ball of fluff.

But before her eyes closed, she tilted her head back ever so slightly.

Her icy-blue eyes locked on Isabella's with a depth of expression no ordinary creature could muster.

It wasn't just a look—it was a statement.

And in that single, unblinking stare, Isabella saw the entire story spelled out in a language only the two of them spoke.

It said: I do not like that new man. Stop letting him get close to us.

Isabella's lips twitched. "Mhm… I hear you," she whispered, pretending she was taking royal orders.

Glimora, satisfied her message had been received, shut her eyes with all the grace of a queen dismissing her court.

Isabella couldn't help it—she giggled softly, the sound like a bubble escaping. She pressed one last kiss to Glimora's head, letting it linger. Then she leaned back in her chair, shifting the fluffball so her head rested comfortably in the crook of Isabella's arm.

Cyrus still hadn't looked away.

When Isabella glanced over at him, their eyes met for the briefest moment, and something in his expression said he understood exactly what Glimora had just "said" without a single word being spoken.

Isabella raised a brow, daring him to comment. He didn't. But the corner of his mouth tilted upward, like he was in on the joke.

She shook her head, still smiling to herself at the absurdity of it all.