The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Cyrus hadn't meant to linger.

He had stayed out of respect—for Ilyana—but he'd already begun to calculate his exit. A breeze stirred the grass around his feet, but he remained still—balanced just on the edge of leaving.

Another minute and he would have disappeared into the treeline like smoke, unnoticed, unseen.

But then... Isabella's name was spoken.

And everything inside him stilled.

His ears twitched faintly, a reflex. His gaze—previously dull with boredom and mild discomfort—snapped into sharp focus. The name dropped like a stone into a still lake, disrupting something that had been carefully held beneath the surface.

He didn't move a muscle.

He didn't have to.

But something about him grew... watchful.

A part of him had once thought it would be easy to walk away. To let Ilyana settle her chaos with her sister and be done with this strange little drama. But now?

He didn't feel like leaving anymore.

Maybe it was just because a part of him still wanted to protect her—gently, fiercely, without question. Because wasn't that what he'd promised himself the first time he saw her? That no matter how the world turned, no matter what names they called him, he would use every part of himself—his hands, his strength, his very soul—to shield her from harm. That quiet promise had rooted itself in him, unshakable, like a vow whispered only to the stars. And somehow, it still felt just as true now as it did then. Maybe even more.

"You dare mention that bitch?" Isolde spat suddenly, voice sharp enough to cut bone.

Cyrus blinked once.

A slow breath left his nose, quiet and thin.

Isolde's eyes blazed with fury, her hands slicing through the air as she stepped toward Ilyana, fury practically radiating from her skin. "We both know the only reason Father let her live is because she's precious to this damned village—and Kian, too," she hissed through gritted teeth. "If not? She would've been dead a long time ago."

Cyrus's fists clenched.

It was small. Barely perceptible. His arms stayed loose at his sides, relaxed even—But his knuckles whitened just enough, the muscles in his forearms flexing beneath sun-kissed skin and tribal bands.

He didn't speak.

Not yet.

His pink eyes, usually half-lidded with quiet detachment, now watched Isolde with cold attention. He didn't blink as she ranted. Didn't interrupt. He was waiting—listening—to see just how deep her venom ran.

But now he knew.

Now, she was a threat.

And he did not like threats.

Especially not to Isabella.

"You know," he said at last, his voice low and strangely soft, "I don't take offense to what you call me. I've been called worse than 'monster' since the day I grew fangs."

Isolde froze mid-turn, not expecting him to speak.

His voice wasn't angry.

It wasn't raised.

But it was wrong—too calm. Too still.

Something about the air shifted.

The warmth of the sunlight pressing down on them suddenly felt muted. The wind that rustled through the grass seemed to hesitate.

Cyrus took a slow step forward, and both sisters unconsciously stiffened.

He tilted his head.

"But if I hear even a whisper that a single hair is harmed on Isabella's head…" he paused, and that quiet smile never reached his eyes, "…I'll make sure your head is detached from your body."

Ilyana gasped audibly.

Isolde swallowed—hard.

The sudden stillness in Cyrus was terrifying. His face held no anger, no visible threat, yet the air around him had grown cold, like winter had just crawled over their skin and sat beside them.

"You… you wouldn't dare," Isolde said finally, though her voice lacked the same fire as before.

Cyrus didn't even blink.

"I will," he replied calmly. "I promise you."

The silence that followed Cyrus's calm threat stretched like wire pulled taut.

A gust of wind swept across the field, stirring the grass and sending shivers down Ilyana's arms. The air had shifted—changed. Whatever warmth had lingered in the sunlight now felt artificial, powerless against the sudden drop in temperature around them.

Isolde gasped sharply, then spun toward Ilyana, her dark hair snapping behind her like a banner in the wind.

"You see?" she barked, voice rising with genuine alarm. "Do you see him now? This—" she jabbed a finger in Cyrus's direction, her lips curling in contempt, "—this is the man you're foolishly chasing. A pretender! Hiding behind polite words and lazy stares—but deep down? He's a beast, Ilyana! A cold-blooded killer!"

Cyrus didn't flinch.

He didn't even look at Isolde.

His gaze was already fixed on Ilyana, his expression unreadable—like stone carved by a careful hand. The cold in his voice from before had melted into something quieter now, something gentler, but still distant.

"Ilyana," he said, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it. "Don't let her twist this into something it's not. I meant what I said."

Ilyana blinked, lost in the collision of everything that had just happened.

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

Why did her chest feel so tight?

Why did it sting?

"I never pretended," Cyrus continued, eyes never leaving hers. "You were kind. And I was grateful for that." He paused. "But I don't return your feelings. I never did."

The breath caught in Ilyana's throat.

"I have eyes for someone else," he added, this time even more gently—his voice steady, but final. "And I thought it was best you heard that from me."

Then, without waiting for a response, he turned.

He didn't storm off. Didn't vanish dramatically. He simply… walked away.

His steps were measured and unshaken, as if none of it touched him. He didn't spare her a single glance.

Ilyana's feet moved before she could think.

"Cyrus, wait—!"

But the scream that tore through the air slammed into her like a wall.

"You ungrateful, shameless little idiot!" Isolde shrieked. "Still running after him? After that? After everything he just said to you?! Are you that desperate to be rejected twice?"

Ilyana stopped short.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

The urge to run—to chase after Cyrus, to grab his hand and ask why—wrestled against the reality of her sister's voice cutting through the clearing like a blade.

She turned instead, jaw clenched, and hissed, "Will you shut up for once in your life?!"

But Isolde only stepped closer, her arms crossing tightly under her chest, her eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction.

"I will not, Ilyana," she snapped. "Someone has to speak the truth while you keep falling for fantasy. You humiliate yourself for a man who wouldn't even blink if you vanished tomorrow."

Ilyana's breath shook, but she didn't speak.

What was there to say?

She stood there, staring at the space Cyrus had once occupied, the sound of his footsteps already fading into the trees. Her stomach twisted in on itself, a knot of heat and embarrassment and something that felt a lot like grief.

She swallowed hard.

"Must you always ruin everything for me?" she whispered.

The words came out small, brittle—barely a breath.

Isolde didn't look away. Her lips curled into a mocking smile.

"You should be happy," she said coldly, brushing invisible dust from her dress. "My next destination isn't a visit to Father."

Then she turned and walked off.

Leaving Ilyana alone. Again.