The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

BACK AT ISABELLA HUT

"And what I have for you… is this."

Isabella's voice rang with pride as she slowly pulled out a pink flower from the pouch at her hip, its petals glowing faintly in the late afternoon sun like a secret begging to be noticed.

It wasn't the usual bloom from the forest near the village, and the second it came into view, a collective gasp swept through the group of women standing around her in a semi-circle. Wide eyes, parted lips, whispers—Isabella drank it all in like a fine cup of tea.

She smirked. Finally.

After all, it had taken her three days, a twisted ankle, two almost-slips down a cliffside, and one standoff with a horned lizard the size of her thigh to get that flower. Worth it? Maybe not for anyone else—but for her pride? Absolutely.

The flower had grown on the east ridge of Mount Feirun, a place where even the village men returned from limping or not at all. It wasn't just steep—it was beast territory. Only idiots or the suicidal climbed that mountain.

Or, in this case… Isabella.

Luca, who had been leaning lazily against a nearby tree with that bored warrior look he always wore, suddenly straightened. His eyes locked on the flower in her hand, brows slowly rising.

He knew that flower.

He knew where it came from.

His mouth parted slightly, and for once, he didn't know what to say.

That mountain? Alone? She's insane.

The mental image of her tiny figure stomping up past boulders and beasts with that stubborn look on her face made something twist in his chest. A mix of panic and admiration… maybe also a bit of secondhand fear.

She held up the flower like it had grown in her backyard. No limp, no scratches, not even a dramatic story to preface it. Just a smile like, Ta-da, peasants.

"What is that, Lady Isabella?" one of the younger women asked, her tone reverent.

Isabella turned to her, still smiling. "Now this is a flower. But not just any kind," she said, holding it up between two fingers like a prized jewel. "It's a flower you can use to make perfume."

A sharp gasp tore through the group.

"Perhum?" one woman repeated, squinting at her with innocent confusion.

The moment of tension cracked like an egg.

A wave of laughter rippled through the women, giggles and chuckles like raindrops against a roof.

Even Isabella snorted before she caught herself, lips twitching. "It's PER-fume, love, not per-hum," she corrected gently, placing a hand on her chest with exaggerated grace. "Say it with me now: perrr-fume."

"Per-fume," the girl echoed slowly.

"Close enough," Isabella grinned.

Behind them, one of the older ladies wiped at her eyes from laughing too hard, while another whispered to her neighbor, "I thought flowers were for chewing or boiling. Not for smelling fancy."

"Maybe that's why your mate ran," another muttered under her breath.

That earned another cackle.

Isabella rolled her eyes with amusement but kept her attention on the flower, twirling it gently between her fingers.

She wasn't done yet. Not even close.

"Do you all see these little round things on the flowers?" Isabella said, holding up the delicate pink bloom like it was a priceless artifact. She gave it a little shake, and a few translucent beads swayed gently beneath the petals, catching the light. They shimmered like dew drops made of silk.

The crowd of women nodded slowly, captivated, eyes wide and curious.

"This," Isabella declared, her voice taking on a teacher's tone, "is where perfume comes from. You burst one—just one—and rub it gently on your skin." She smiled knowingly, brushing a finger over her neck as if demonstrating. "I've tested it. It lasts all day."

A hushed "Ooh" swept through the crowd.

Then came a whisper from the back, too loud to be discreet. "That's why she always smells so good."

A ripple of giggles broke out, and Isabella's smirk turned into a full, satisfied grin. She tilted her chin a bit higher, clearly basking in the praise. "Well," she said lightly, "I wasn't going to say it myself."

She turned her gaze toward one of the younger women standing closer to the front. "You. Come closer."

The chosen woman practically stumbled over her own feet as she stepped forward, her expression somewhere between excitement and mortal terror. The others leaned in, curiosity lighting up their faces.

Isabella's initial thought was to help her apply it—maybe show off her technique, do a bit of the classic wrist dab and neck swipe. But then her eyes glinted with mischief. No. Better to let them struggle a little first. More memorable that way.

So instead, she handed the flower over, catching the young woman completely off guard. The poor girl blinked down at it like Isabella had just given her a sacred relic plucked straight from the heavens.

"Go on," Isabella said, raising a brow. "Don't just stare. Must I teach you all everything?"

The woman glanced nervously back at the group. A few of them gave her wide-eyed encouragement, others just looked jealous that she got to try first. She gulped, turned her attention back to the flower, and held it gingerly, as if afraid it might explode.

She poked at one of the round beads, then pressed it—too hard. It burst with a little pop, squirting some of the essence onto her fingers and down her arm.

Isabella made no move to help. She crossed her arms and watched.

The girl winced and looked up for guidance, eyes pleading.

Isabella arched a brow, lips twitching, but didn't budge. "I'm not your mother. Keep going."

The young woman's cheeks flamed, but she nodded, determined. She dabbed her finger on her neck—missed. Tried again—this time too much. She ended up smearing it awkwardly near her ear. The women behind her tried not to laugh, but there was a definite snort from somewhere in the crowd.

Isabella finally smiled. "You'll live. And surprisingly, you didn't ruin it."

The girl straightened, pride blooming on her face. "Really?"

"Really," Isabella said with a nod. "Not bad for your first time."

The girl beamed, standing taller, suddenly basking in the glow of her accomplishment.

"Alright," Isabella said, motioning with a flick of her wrist, "the rest of you, don't crowd her like starved cats, one at a time. Go on, take a whiff."