The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

"Heh, how many times will I tell you that I, Isabella Devereaux, am an—"

"Independent and capable woman," Isabella started, but Kian finished, his voice calm and precise as ever.

She blinked.

Her head snapped toward him in surprise, her mouth still slightly open mid-sentence. "Oh? So you actually listen?"

Kian didn't answer, but the slight quirk of his brow and the very subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth told her everything she needed to know.

Her lips curled into a slow, impressed smile. "Damn. That's sexy." (She's only ever this bold with Kian)

And for just a breath of a second, Kian's gaze flickered.

But before Isabella could tease him more or dissect the almost invisible reaction on his always-composed face—

Footsteps.

Crisp. Hesitant. Not fast enough to be urgent, but not slow enough to be relaxed either. Someone was approaching with guilt all over their soul.

Isabella tilted her head and peeked from behind Kian's tall figure, one brow lifting in curiosity as her gaze landed on the approaching figure.

There stood Luca.

And the way his lips were pursed together like a kid caught with his hands in a pot of stolen honey told her all she needed to know. He was so busted.

Kian stepped slightly aside, but he didn't move far. He stood like a silent pillar next to her, his presence looming but oddly comforting.

Isabella stepped forward, arms folded, posture perfect, her eyes locked on Luca like she was trying to X-ray his intentions.

"Where have you been?" Her voice wasn't loud, but it was sharp. Icy and commanding in the way only Isabella could pull off. A minute ago she had been all sunshine and stretch, now she was winter incarnate.

"Eh, so I woke up and I—" Luca began, but the words jammed in his throat like a rock caught mid-hiccup. His eyes locked with Isabella's, and instantly, he knew.

She knew.

The look she gave him wasn't just a glare—it was the kind of unblinking, slow-burning rage that made grown warriors confess things they hadn't even done. His Adam's apple bobbed so hard it nearly escaped his neck.

In sheer panic, he switched tactics.

"I just finished eating and realized you hadn't called for me all day!" he blurted out, way too brightly. The kind of fake joy a man mustered when he saw death in glittery heels approaching and decided to greet it with jazz hands.

It was the cheer of a man dangling off a cliff, smiling for a photo.

His grin was stretched, trembling at the edges, and his voice hit an octave so high it could shatter soap bubbles.

Isabella didn't move. She didn't blink. She just stared.

And somewhere in the back of Luca's mind, a little voice whispered:

You fool. You absolute dumpling. Run.

Isabella's expression didn't change.

"So… you've been eating for seven hours?"

She lifted a single brow, and Kian—though silent—seemed to straighten slightly beside her, his gaze also on Luca. It was the quiet judgment of a man who didn't scold, but made you feel shame anyway.

Luca glanced sideways at Kian.

Maybe for support. Maybe hoping his king would chuckle or defuse the situation.

Instead, Kian's eyes locked with his, glacier blue and absolutely unreadable.

And that's when Luca knew.

He was dead.

No—not just dead.

He was done, cooked, and halfway served with garnish.

Because Isabella being mad was one thing. Her anger was predictable. She'd throw something, maybe scream, definitely use exaggerated hand gestures. And by the end of it, she'd either forgive him or forget.

But Kian being silently on her side? Yeah, that was terrifying.

"Why are you staring at him?" Isabella snapped, and Luca's eyes immediately snapped back to her.

"I—I—yes, yes, you told me we'd be making shampoo today," he stammered.

Isabella gave a long, exaggerated blink. The kind that said wow, you're really digging your own grave right now.

"So why are you only arriving after I've finished?"

Luca chuckled nervously and rubbed the back of his neck. "There's still more clay bottles to be filled," he tried weakly, "and, uh, more gourds too?" He gestured vaguely to the work area. "I can help with that."

Isabella stared at him. The deadpan kind of stare that made Luca feel two inches tall.

The thing was—he hadn't meant to be late.

Not really.

He had woken up early. He'd even sharpened his knife and intended to go hunting for the fruits Isabella liked. But then some friends had passed by, and one thing led to another. A hunt. A lazy afternoon. Some jokes. A meal. Resting under the sun.

And then…

Then came the sudden, paralyzing memory of her voice yesterday:

"Tomorrow. Shampoo. Don't be late. Or else."

And when Isabella said "or else"...

Luca didn't even remember telling his friends goodbye. He just ran.

"Oh really?" Isabella asked, tone dangerously calm as she took a few steps forward. Her footsteps made Luca instinctively back away.

She was leading him. Herding him like prey. His back now inches from the stone slab with the empty bottles.

Then he tried the age-old technique of deflection.

"Is that Glimora I hear snoring inside?" Luca said quickly, pretending to listen closely. "Yep. Definitely her. I should go hunt some fruits for her. You know, so she doesn't get angry when she wakes up."

And without waiting for a response, he bolted.

Just sprinted off like his soul was chasing freedom.

Isabella stood frozen for a second. Her mouth slightly open in disbelief.

"Did… did he just—" she muttered.

Kian made a small noise. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a scoff. Just something low in his throat that might have been amusement.

Isabella turned to him, offended. "Did you see that?"

Kian simply nodded. "I did."

"Did you see how he disrespected my authority?"

Another nod.

"Ran off like a thief in broad daylight!"

Kian nodded again, this time folding his arms. "He'll be back."

Isabella let out a dramatic sigh and placed a hand on her hip. "Honestly, if I don't scare him, who will?"

Kian turned to her. His voice low and smooth. "You scare everyone."

"Good." She smiled.

And for a brief second, just the smallest moment—Kian's gaze lingered on her longer than necessary.

A little longer than it should have.