The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

"I'll fill the rest of the clay bottles and gourds," Isabella announced, dusting her hands dramatically like she was about to conquer the world instead of... bottling shampoo. She even struck a pose, chin high, like some majestic potion witch about to bless the village with hair so shiny it could blind the sun.

Kian, who was calmly gathering the last of the leaves from the drying rack, paused. "You should go inside and rest."

Isabella rolled her eyes. "Just because I love getting princess treatment doesn't mean I'll let you turn me into some fragile decoration."

Kian didn't reply. He simply looked at her.

One of those Kian looks.

Long. Blank. Deadpan.

And yet somehow, it said:

"You're ridiculous."

"But fine."

"Don't cry to me later."

So Isabella, being Isabella, gave him a smug little smirk that practically screamed watch and learn, and marched toward the cauldron like she was walking the royal carpet. "See? I'm perfectly capable of—OH HOT HOT HOT GODS—"

She yelped, snatching her hand back like the cauldron had just committed a war crime. Her whole body jolted, doing a panicked little hop-dance as she waved her hand furiously.

"WHY IS EVERYTHING IN THIS VILLAGE HOT? WHY ARE MY HANDS FRIED LIKE BEAST-MEAT?!" she cried, jumping in place like she was under attack.

Her blonde hair bounced with her. Her expression was halfway between disbelief and betrayal. And honestly, she looked like she'd just been slapped by the universe itself.

Kian was at her side in two steps.

Two terrifyingly fast, shadow-casting steps.

His broad frame blocked the sun, like some kind of brooding eclipse. His hand reached out for hers before she could even protest.

And his face—gods, his face.

No smirk. No teasing glint. Just a sharp, cold stare that sliced right through her dramatics.

There was irritation in his eyes, yes—but beneath it?

Worry.

The quiet, stern kind of worry that made her heartbeat stutter.

"You didn't check the heat," he said, voice low, reprimanding.

"Obviously," Isabella muttered, still wincing as she held her fingers out awkwardly like they were cursed.

He took her hand anyway.

Gently.

As if it was made of glass. Even while being annoyed, Kian handled her like she was breakable.

"I'm fine. I've survived worse. Remember that time with the boiling porridge?"

"Isabella."

Her name left his lips like a warning shot. Deep. Serious.

She opened her mouth, ready to unleash one of her signature sass attacks—

But then—

That glare.

Sharp. Piercing. Unmoving.

It wasn't loud, but it was thunderous in its silence. The kind of look that said: Don't test me.

Isabella blinked.

Then blinked again.

And for the first time in what felt like forever… she stayed silent.

For five whole seconds.

"…Tch. Not even a little pity? Maybe just a kiss on the boo-boo?" she muttered under her breath, narrowing her eyes at the cauldron like it owed her a formal apology. "Wouldn't kill you to say sorry on behalf of the pot…"

Kian's brows furrowed even deeper. His stare now carried thunderclouds.

"Isabella," he said, voice tight, "keep quiet."

Her breath hitched.

Not from fear.

But from how serious he suddenly was. That tone? That glare?

That wasn't teasing.

That wasn't playful.

That was real.

He looked down at her, jaw clenched. "It's not funny when you hurt yourself."

The words weren't loud. They weren't harsh. But they landed.

Harder than she expected.

It wasn't just the words. It was the weight behind them.

Like something unspoken was lodged in his throat.

He wasn't yelling. He wasn't snapping. He wasn't even raising his voice.

But gods, that look—the furrow between his brows, the tight line of his lips, the way his eyes wouldn't let hers go. It felt like standing too close to a storm cloud that hadn't broken yet. All tension. No release.

He was angry.

Not because she annoyed him.

Not because she joked.

But because she got hurt.

Because she didn't take herself seriously.

Because she made it seem like her pain was no big deal.

Because—maybe—her pain was a very big deal to him.

Her breath caught.

And just like that, Isabella, chaos incarnate, sharp-tongued and snark-loaded… had nothing clever to say.

Her lips pressed into a quiet line, eyes wide as she looked up at him.

Guilt. Surprise. Something warmer.

She didn't say a word.

And Kian?

He didn't scold again.

He didn't roll his eyes or walk away or throw back one of her dramatic lines the way she sometimes expected when she went too far.

Instead—

He lifted his free hand.

Palm open.

A soft blue glow unfurled from his fingers like smoke meeting the sky.

Magic. His magic.

He reached for her burned hand again—slowly, carefully—and cupped it between both of his. The blue light shimmered faintly between them, slipping over her skin like silk. Warm at first. Then cool. Then—

Gone.

The pain faded instantly. The sting vanished like it had never happened. All that remained was the tingle of the magic still humming in her skin.

Her whole body relaxed. Without permission.

"Kian…" she breathed, eyes flickering up to his. "Doesn't using your powers drain you?"

He didn't say anything.

Not a word.

But that look he gave her?

A side glance.

Sharp. Dry. Annoyed, but… fond.

The kind of look that whispered: If you know that, why do you keep doing this to yourself?

Her lips twitched. She almost laughed. Then she did.

A quiet little giggle spilled from her lips—light, real, a little embarrassed.

Not at him. At herself. At the absurdity of how quickly he could silence her just by caring.

Gods, how did he do that?

"You're too much sometimes," she whispered, her voice softer now. Not teasing. Just… honest. "But you care. Even if your face refuses to admit it."

She stepped forward slightly.

And her heart, traitorous thing that it was, fluttered like it was stuck in her throat.

He still hadn't let go of her hand.

Still held it there, between his much larger ones, warm and firm.

And for some reason—maybe because she was dizzy from the heat, maybe because she wanted to see his face twitch—Isabella did something bold.

She stood on her toes.

Immediately regretted it—because wow, he was tall. Even with all her effort she barely made it to his collarbone.

She reached for his arm instead. Gripped it with both hands like it was the only thing keeping her anchored to the ground.

"Come down here," she muttered, eyes narrowed in determination.

Kian's brows lifted—barely. Like he was deeply confused, but also mildly amused.

And then—

He leaned down.

Not much. Not dramatic. Not sweeping or romantic. Just a slight dip of his head, like fine, let's see what you'll do now.

It was enough.

She didn't go for his lips.

Instead, she brushed her lips gently—softly—against his cheek, right by the corner of his mouth. Just enough to feel his skin. Just enough to let him feel the meaning behind it.

It was delicate. Quiet. A kiss without fireworks.

But also—not nothing.

Her fingers were still gripping his arm as she slowly, reluctantly, pulled away. Her feet settled back on the ground. Her hand didn't immediately let go of his.

His eyes flicked open just as she stepped down.