The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

"What did I do? I can't possibly be the reason you're mad—I met you angry," Kian said, voice calm, eyes unwavering. His face was carved stone, like the idea of expressing emotion was a tax he simply refused to pay.

And that? That genuinely made Isabella want to punch a mountain.

He was actually being serious. He wasn't playing dumb. He wasn't teasing her.

No. This man, this infuriatingly composed man, was genuinely trying to understand why he was somehow being blamed for the chaos in her day.

Isabella blinked at him.

Hard.

She tilted her head with the kind of slow, soul-emptying smile one gave before slapping a spirit out of someone.

"You want to know why I'm mad?" she asked, her voice rising half an octave.

Kian said nothing. Just blinked. Waiting.

"Well because, Kian," she began, her hands already flailing like she was swatting at invisible demons, "Opehlia decided to make me mad because she keeps being stupid and soft and rainbows and 'maybe he's just having a bad day'—well maybe I'll give her a bad day!"

Kian blinked again.

"And Cyrus!" she continued, arms now flying in wide sweeps. "Cyrus is now suddenly a teacher! A pottery-making, giggling, kind-eyed, let-me-show-you-how-to-hold-the-bowl teacher!"

She didn't even pause for air. "And that stupid cauldron won't budge, it's like it's nailed to the very soul of this planet, and then you—you—just appear out of nowhere with your stupid perfect face and your raised brow and your ocean like eyes like you've come to witness the fall of Rome and you—YOU—are just so, so—Aaaaaaaaaa!"

And she stomped. Hard. Three times. Like a toddler whose toy had been taken away and stepped on and cursed in ancient Latin.

Kian watched her quietly, his arms crossed and his mouth twitching—because if he smiled, he knew he might lose his life.

She looked tiny.

A tiny, furious goddess, with her messy hair half-falling out of its braid, one slipper slightly crooked from stomping, Glimora sleeping peacefully nearby like she hadn't just witnessed her mistress explode.

Isabella's chest was rising and falling like she'd just run a war.

And still, she stood. Lips pressed. Eyes burning.

Kian just... stepped forward.

No teasing words. No smug look.

He stepped forward with the patience of a mountain and the gentleness of moonlight.

And he hugged her.

Just like that.

Strong arms wrapped around her tense, shivering form.

And Isabella—who was mid-breath, mid-glare, mid-existence—froze.

The only sound she managed was a soft, barely-there, "Huh?"

Her arms remained suspended like a puppet with its strings cut.

Her eyes widened as she peeked up in confusion, but Kian's hand gently pressed her head down against his chest, holding her there like she was something fragile he had no intention of letting go.

"It's okay," he whispered, his voice a soft rumble against her hair, like thunder in the distance that felt more like comfort than warning.

Isabella didn't know how to respond. Her brain was still catching up. One second she was about to start her Oscar-winning monologue on why this world and everyone in it needed to get out of her way—and the next, she was tucked in Kian's arms like she belonged there.

Which she absolutely did not.

Right?

She blinked. Twice.

"W-What are you doing?" she asked, her voice all puffed-up bravado and none of the bite. Because honestly? The only thing biting right now was the wild flutter in her chest.

"Holding a storm," Kian murmured without missing a beat. "One that's pretending she's just wind."

That was not the answer she was expecting.

Isabella stilled, blinking into the space between his collarbone and neck.

"…what?"

"You're angry," he said, calmly. "But underneath all that fire, I see confusion, hurt… maybe a little jealousy?"

She pulled back slightly, gasping. "Excuse me?!"

Kian didn't flinch. "I didn't say it was a bad thing."

His hands were still holding her—not too tightly, but not like he'd let her go either. His touch was warm. Secure. Steady. It made her feel grounded, and that was the most dangerous part.

Isabella narrowed her eyes up at him. "You don't know me."

Kian smirked, the tiniest twitch of one corner of his lips. "You stomped the ground like a sun-starved cub."

She gasped again, slapping his chest lightly. "I did not!"

"You did." He nodded slowly, voice still maddeningly smooth. "And then you threatened a boulder. I watched it all. Glimora's still emotionally recovering."

Isabella let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl. "You're insufferable."

"But I'm not wrong."

Silence stretched between them. His hands still held her waist.

Her fingers had somehow ended up against his bare chest without permission, curled lightly near his collarbone. And her face was right there, practically tucked beneath his chin, where his skin was warm and smelled faintly of smoke and forest.

And then… his voice softened, almost unsure.

"I don't like seeing you upset," he said, and this time, it wasn't teasing. It wasn't witty. It wasn't laced with his usual cool detachment.

It was honest.

It was boyish, even. Awkward in its sincerity.

"I'm not good with words," he went on. "Or feelings. Or faces, apparently. Yours especially. It changes every second." (Y'all he's trying his best to be sweet, don't judge)

Isabella blinked. "My face is fine—"

"But I can always tell when you're not okay. You hide it well from others, but not from me." His thumb brushed the back of her hand. "You looked so… tired."

She stared at him.

Kian, the man with the thousand-yard stare, the man who barely reacted to anything, was looking at her like she was the center of the map.

Like he was studying her.

Like he actually saw her.

And then, without warning, he leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.

It was quiet. It was gentle. It was everything she didn't know she needed and everything she was definitely not prepared for.

Her breath hitched.

Her body froze for the second time that day.

Her brain screamed: What?!

"Wh—what are you doing?!" she asked, voice cracking somewhere between a whisper and a squeak.

Kian pulled back slightly, his lips still too close for her to think straight. "Calming the storm."

"I'm not a storm," she muttered.

He tilted his head. "You are. But you're my favorite kind."

Isabella bit the inside of her cheek so hard she nearly drew blood.

Her lips tried to curve into a smile. Tried. But she fought it. Like it was a matter of pride. Her face twitched in betrayal.

"I swear if you smile, I win," Kian teased, his voice barely above a whisper.

Isabella gave him a look. A fierce look.

That crumbled in two seconds.

The tiniest, reluctant smile slipped onto her lips—like it snuck past her defenses when she wasn't watching.

"I hate you," she whispered.

"No you don't."

"I do."

"Then I guess I'll just have to keep showing up until you don't."

Isabella looked away, ears tingling. "You're so full of yourself."

"And you're blushing."

"I am not!"

"You are. It's cute."

She groaned, hiding her face in his chest. "Goddess, make him stop talking."

"I would," Kian said softly, pressing another kiss to her hair. "But I think you're finally listening."

She was.

Unfortunately.

And she had no idea what to do about it.

...

If it's within your means, any gift you send would mean a lot to me.