The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Valen let the silence linger a little longer. Just long enough for her to breathe—really breathe.

Then, in a quiet voice that didn't quite match the usual bluntness in his tone, he said, "Eat your fruit."

Ophelia blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

Valen reached to his side without waiting for her to respond, picking up the still-steaming bowl of soup he had brought in earlier. He offered it gently, holding the rim with one hand and a carved spoon in the other. The scent of herbs and wild root filled the small space between them.

"And this too," he added.

Ophelia stared at the bowl, then at him. "I'm not that hungry…"

He raised a brow. "That's too bad."

A ghost of a smile flickered on her lips.

She hesitated, but Valen stayed steady, waiting. Present.

With a small sigh, she finally shifted and accepted the bowl into her lap. She scooped a spoonful slowly, still a little dazed from their earlier conversation, and lifted it to her lips.

The warmth made her chest ache.

"You shouldn't starve yourself just because your heart is heavy," Valen said, watching her carefully. "I don't like seeing you like that."

Ophelia's eyes dropped again, not out of shame—but because the softness in his voice made her feel something she didn't quite know how to carry.

She gave a tiny nod. "I'll eat."

And she did. Slowly. Bite by bite, the warmth returned to her body—enough for her shoulders to ease, for her face to relax just a little.

Valen didn't move far. He just stayed seated beside her, not touching, not pushing. Just there.

After a few minutes, when she had eaten more than half, he finally asked, "Are you going to go back to Isabella?"

Ophelia stiffened, just slightly.

Valen caught it immediately. His voice lowered. "You've been here all day."

She nodded slowly but didn't meet his eyes.

"I'll… stay here a little longer," she said, her voice quiet but clearer than before.

Valen's head tilted. "Why?"

Ophelia's eyes turned down to her lap, the now-empty bowl still in her hands.

"She's probably still mad at me," she murmured. "And I don't like it when Isabella's mad at me."

The way she said it—soft, unsure, almost childlike—hit Valen somewhere deep. Her face was still, but her lashes trembled slightly. Her fingers clenched tighter around the edge of the bowl, like she was bracing herself for something.

"I just want to wait," she added. "Just a little more… until she isn't anymore."

Her voice cracked on the last word, like something about admitting it out loud made it real—and raw.

Valen was quiet, but he didn't need to say anything.

His hand moved again, slow and steady. He brushed a few strands of her hair behind her ear, the gesture grounding. Familiar. Gentle.

"You can stay," he said.

And for the first time since she'd walked into his room that morning, Ophelia let herself lean against him.

She didn't speak again. She didn't need to.

She just closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder, soup bowl balanced carefully in her lap, the warmth of the moment holding her together while her mind and heart slowly began to mend.

...

Meanwhile, poor Cyrus had been trying—really trying—to wrap things up with Ilyana so he could get back to Isabella. But the moment he finished solving one issue, she was already pulling up another with wide, pleading eyes and a hopeful smile.

It had been hours.

Her mates had even come by earlier, clearly displeased by the scene. But Ilyana had shooed them away with a breezy excuse and a bright laugh, acting as if she didn't notice the tension burning behind their eyes.

Cyrus, on the other hand, noticed everything.

"Ilyana," he said gently, rubbing the back of his neck with a strained smile, "I've spent hours with you already. We've gone over a lot. I think that's enough for today."

Ilyana pouted immediately—like a child denied candy. "But you have nothing to do, Cyrus," she said, stepping closer and looping her hand around his arm. "What's the rush?"

Her voice was soft, but the weight of her body pressing into his side said something else entirely. She looked… happy. Genuinely happy to be near him. Like someone in love. The way her eyes lit up just from standing close made his stomach twist—not in flattery, but in guilt.

Cyrus hesitated, then gently, carefully, peeled his arm from her grasp. "I need to help Isabella," he said, keeping his tone kind. "I can't leave her alone for too long."

The moment the name left his lips, Ilyana's expression faltered. Her brows pulled together slowly, her lips pressed tight like she was working through something she didn't want to say aloud.

Finally, she asked, "Cyrus… is Isabella really your sister?"

The question made him freeze mid-motion.

He turned to look at her fully now, the tension creeping into his shoulders. Ilyana's gaze was hopeful—wide, bright, almost trembling with the kind of vulnerability that makes you hesitate before breaking someone's heart.

Of course, the truth was no.

No, Isabella wasn't his sister.

He loved her. That was why he was always near, always thinking of her, always protecting her without being asked.

His first instinct was to say it. To tell the truth. To finally, finally let the weight off his chest.

But then he thought of the villagers. Of the ones who still looked at him with distrust. If they knew he'd lied—if they knew he and Isabella weren't blood—it would be enough to get him cast out for good. And Isabella… she'd be furious. Not just because he lied, but because he risked everything they'd built just to be honest.

She worried about him. Even when she pretended not to.

Cyrus looked back at Ilyana, caught in the silence. Her eyes were still on him, silently pleading for an answer. She took a small step closer, reaching for his arm like she was scared he'd vanish if she didn't touch him.

He opened his mouth—

"Ilyana!"

The sharp voice cut through the clearing like a whip.