The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

"What is it?" Isabella asked shamelessly, beaming up at Kian like the chaotic menace she was. Her entire face was glowing—eyes bright, lips curled in a self-satisfied smirk, chin tilted just enough to make it clear she knew she looked good and knew he was looking.

And gods, was he looking.

But he didn't reply.

Kian just stared. Not at her eyes. Not at her hair. Not even at her ridiculous smirk. No—this man, this emotionally constipated, ice-faced king, had the nerve to be staring directly at her lips.

Intently.

Like they were the last thing he'd ever see.

It wasn't a glance. It wasn't innocent.

This was full-on, soul-leaving-body, I'm-doing-sinful-things-in-my-head kind of staring.

His eyes didn't twitch. His expression didn't change. But the heat behind that gaze was real. It crept over her like fire through dry grass—slow, unstoppable, and very, very warm.

After a few silent seconds of this, Isabella—Isabella, who feared nothing—started to heat up. Internally and externally. She wasn't blushing, of course not. Absolutely not. She was just...warm.

From the sun.

Yes, the sun.

"Is it getting hot out here, or is it just... your face," she muttered to herself, then immediately regretted it. What kind of line was that?

To distract herself from the fluttering mess in her chest, she cleared her throat like she was about to deliver a royal decree and swung her body to the side with exaggerated playfulness. Like haha, what intense moment? I'm perfectly fine, normal, not at all affected by you.

Except—

Her eyes caught on something.

Someone.

Standing behind Kian like a poorly hidden tree.

Luca.

Freaking LUCA.

Frozen. Wide-eyed. Mouth slightly parted. Holding a gourd of fruits like he'd just time-traveled into a scene he had no business witnessing.

Isabella's brain did a double-take.

Her face did a full switch. From flirty and floaty to murderous intent in 0.2 seconds.

Her body snapped around toward him like a predator spotting prey. She didn't even need to say anything—the glare alone was enough to make lesser men confess crimes they hadn't committed.

Luca visibly flinched.

His hand gripped the gourd tighter. His legs looked like they were contemplating whether to run or bow.

Her eyes screamed: Leave. Now.

Luca's mouth opened and closed like he wanted to ask something—probably "are you blushing?"—but wisely, he decided nope, he wanted to live today.

Because it wasn't just the fact that he saw her smile like that. Not tease-smile. Not smug-smile. But genuine, happy smile. A kind of soft that he didn't even know existed in her emotional range.

And paired with that look on Kian's face?

Yeah.

He'd seen too much.

Even as Isabella tried to mask her flustered panic with a scowl, there was still something... off about her expression. A little too pink in the cheeks. A little too dreamy around the eyes. She looked like a love-struck puppy who just got caught drooling over her favorite bone.

Not that she was in love. Absolutely not. She wasn't the type. But maybe—maybe—she was starting to get a whiff of it. A taste. The kind of slow realization that made you sit back and think, Oh. That's what this feeling is.

"F-Fruits," Luca blurted out at last, with the same energy as someone offering a peace offering to a vengeful spirit. "Fruits for... sleeping Glimora inside. And—I saw nothing. I swear. I was never here."

And like a coward king escaping his own trial, Luca practically dove into the hut before she could throw something.

Isabella let out a sharp chuckle. Not at Luca's expense—well, maybe a little—but mostly because of how fast he ran. "I'll kill him if a word gets out," she muttered to Kian, not turning to look at him, but very aware of the way he still hadn't moved from that intense staring spot.

Kian, of course, said nothing. Just raised a brow like he found her threats both predictable and mildly entertaining.

She ignored him.

As usual.

"Go sit down," he said suddenly. Voice low. Commanding. King-like.

Like he actually expected her to obey.

"I don't like being commanded," she snapped automatically, lips twitching into a grin.

"But… ok."

She said it anyway.

The words left her lips with the same reluctant sass of someone agreeing to eat her vegetables after being told three times.

Because despite what she said… she was smiling again.

And not the kind of smile that came from teasing or mockery.

But the kind that meant she'd been seen. Not just looked at, but really seen.

By him.

By Kian.

And even though she was already halfway turned away, walking back toward the shaded stone slab to cool off, she could still feel his gaze on her.

Not hungry.

Not possessive.

But something else.

Something quiet.

Something that made her wonder if maybe—just maybe—he'd felt it too.

That spark.

That shift.

That dangerous little thing that happens when someone like him—cold, distant, unreadable—lets you in, just a little.

Isabella sat down with a dramatic sigh, plopping herself onto a smooth patch of grass near the drying rack. Her eyes, however, refused to rest.

They were fixed—shamelessly, boldly—on Kian.

He stood with his back half-turned, skin glistening in the sun, veins lining his forearms as he poured the last of the shampoo into a gourd with an effortless grace that made the most mundane task feel like poetry. His muscles flexed beneath his skin, glinting with sweat, catching the sunlight like they were forged from gold and gods. The soft wind lifted strands of his silver-streaked hair, making him look more like an untouchable spirit beast than a man.

Isabella blinked slowly.

And then, with zero guilt or apology, she bit her lower lip.

"Mm-mm," she hummed under her breath like she'd just seen the best cut of meat in the market and was definitely ready to devour. "Built like a king. Acts like a storm. Stares like sin. Carries cauldrons like it's nothing…"

She leaned on her elbow, chin in hand, eyes never leaving him. "What a shame," she sighed. "This man wasn't born just to be watched. He was born to be experienced."

Kian bent slightly to adjust the fire pit stones, and Isabella's gaze dropped precisely where it shouldn't.

"Goddess bless the tailors of this realm," she whispered, mentally saluting whoever crafted his skirt.

And then—

{Ding!}

The familiar chime of her system jolted her slightly upright.

{Congratulations on finally creating a Natural Shampoo. Your hair will no longer be a bird's nest.}

{+80 points}