The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

"I'll help you."

That was the first thing Cyrus said as Isabella's gaze landed on him.

His voice, as always, was warm. Unshaken.

Gentle, like the sound of rainfall in early spring.

He was standing just behind her now, calm and poised as ever, like he hadn't just walked through an emotional minefield before coming here. His soft pink eyes held a tenderness that made Isabella feel instantly guilty for being in a bad mood.

But she didn't get the chance to respond.

"She's coming with me."

Kian's voice cut cleanly through the moment, like a blade slicing silk.

It wasn't just what he said—it was how he said it.

Sharp. Cold. Final.

His gaze was pinned directly on Cyrus, not Isabella. There was a flicker in his blue eyes—not exactly annoyance, but something more restrained. Something… colder.

Isabella stiffened slightly.

She could already feel it.

That weird air between them again.

The kind that wasn't loud or dramatic—but crackled just under the surface like a storm waiting to be acknowledged.

For a second, no one said anything.

And in the middle of the growing silence stood poor Luca, who blinked rapidly between the two men. One second, his gaze was on Kian. The next, on Cyrus. Then back to Kian. Then Cyrus. His neck was starting to resemble a spinning fan.

Should I excuse myself?

No, that would be rude.

Wait, they look like they're about to murder each other with their eyes. I should leave. But also, I really want to see how this ends—

He took a tiny half-step backward, then forward again, trying not to draw attention, but absolutely failing. His body was doing the I-need-to-flee dance, but his eyes were wide open with full drama-hungry curiosity.

Isabella almost smiled.

Almost.

But then Cyrus spoke again.

"No problem at all," he said with a smile that didn't waver. "Unless you're afraid I'll steal her away with kindness."

There was no bite in his voice. No raised tone. But the smile on his lips wasn't as harmless as it seemed. Cyrus sounded perfectly calm—almost too calm—as if he was offering help while drawing a line Kian would have to choose not to cross.

Kian didn't even blink.

"No," he said flatly. "I'm worried she'll rely on someone who isn't strong enough to protect her."

The air froze.

Cyrus didn't flinch. But his shoulders pulled back just a little, like something in his chest straightened.

He gave a small nod. Not offended. Just… acknowledging the blow.

"I see," he murmured. "So it's about strength."

Kian's gaze narrowed slightly.

Cyrus smiled—gentle, never mocking.

"Strength doesn't always come from the body, Kian."

Kian didn't respond. He didn't have to. The tension between them said enough.

Isabella shifted slightly between them, lips parting—but then closing again. It felt like watching two completely different temperatures trying to exist in the same space.

Cyrus, warm and steady. The kind of man who would offer his fur blanket to someone even if it was snowing and he was sick.

Kian, cold and absolute. The kind of man who was the snowstorm.

And somehow… both were willing to drop everything for her.

Luca, still stuck in the background, started inching to the side again.

Should I fake a leg cramp? Maybe pretend I forgot to wash something? Wait, no. What if they ask me to stay? Oh no. I'm going to be the witness at a murder—

"I appreciate both of you," Isabella finally said, breaking the standoff. Her voice was calm, but her eyes flicked between them carefully. "But—"

"But?" Cyrus asked softly.

She met his eyes.

And for a moment… she hesitated.

It was the smallest hesitation. Barely there. But Cyrus caught it.

And his smile dimmed just slightly.

He wasn't angry. Of course not. Cyrus never was. He could never be at her.

But a shadow passed behind his eyes, just faint enough to feel like a bruise that hadn't yet formed.

Still, he waited.

So did Kian.

Isabella drew in a breath.

"I'll go with Kian."

Cyrus's brows twitched. Just for a second.

"You can go back to Ilyana." Isabella finished, her voice softer now. Almost… apologetic.

For a split second, no one moved.

Cyrus didn't flinch. Didn't tense.

He just… stood there. Still.

Then he blinked once, slowly, as if giving himself an extra second to process the words.

His lips curved upward, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Of course," he said quietly. "I understand."

His voice didn't falter, not even once. But something about the way he said it—like he'd been expecting it all along—hurt more than any argument could've.

He turned slightly, shoulders still relaxed, like it didn't matter.

Like he was used to this.

Like he'd been chosen second one too many times and had learned how to carry it with grace.

Then—he paused.

Just for a breath.

Not long enough to seem desperate. But long enough that you could almost see the flicker of hope he buried before it fully formed.

He looked over his shoulder, his smile soft. Still gentle. Still kind.

Too kind.

"If you change your mind," he said, "I'll be around."

Simple words.

But they hung in the air like a promise he didn't expect her to keep.

Then he turned away for real.

And this time… he didn't look back.

His footsteps faded with the breeze—quiet, unbothered. Or maybe just pretending to be.

Because no matter how softly someone walked, you could still hear it when a heart broke.

Isabella didn't speak.

Kian didn't either.

Luca finally let out a breath so long and dramatic you'd think he'd just survived a war.

"Wow," he muttered under his breath. "I should've brought meat."

Kian gave him a look so sharp it could have chopped wood.

Luca cleared his throat and speed-walked out of the area, pretending to be fascinated by the sky.

Isabella didn't laugh. She just stared in the direction Cyrus had gone.

Kian stood beside her, silent and unmoving.

Not a word passed between them.

But still—when she looked up, he was looking at her.

"Seriously? Quit staring. We've got work to do," Isabella huffed, rolling her eyes as she strutted off, hoping her tone could break the tension.