The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Isabella blinked.

Then shook her head. Fast. Frantic. "No. No-no, I don't know him. I promise—I don't know who that is."

Her hands even lifted instinctively as if she were about to swear an oath before a sacred tribunal. "I've never seen that man in my life."

Which was technically a lie.

But a necessary one.

Her gut told her that acknowledging him would be the fastest route to ruining her life. He was already grinning at her like a wolf who knew exactly where her den was.

Zyran didn't seem the least bit offended. In fact, his smirk only deepened, and his gaze never left her. He propped one elbow against the branch and rested his cheek on his knuckles as if this was his personal theatre and Isabella the star performer.

Don't come down. Please, just stay up there and leave in peace. She mentally begged the universe. Or struck by lightning. That worked too.

"Who are you?" Kian's voice rang out coolly.

He stepped forward just slightly, not aggressively—Kian never moved unless it was with purpose—but enough that several guards straightened, as though sensing the shift in the air.

There was no immediate hostility in his tone. Just curiosity. Detached and cold.

Because Zyran, for all his strange theatrics, didn't feel like a threat. If anything, he radiated the lazy boredom of a spoiled cat with nothing better to do than toy with the mouse and yawn afterward.

"Who am I?" Zyran echoed, like the question mildly entertained him.

He laid back against the branch leisurely, arms spread, and with a satisfied hum, he closed his eyes.

Then—pop.

Apples suddenly bloomed from the branches above him, growing in fast-forward motion, ripe and glistening in seconds. One fell into his hand without effort.

He bit into it with a loud crunch, the juice gleaming on his lips, and closed his eyes again, sighing like a man at a five-star spa.

He bit into it with a loud crunch, juice spilling over the curve of his lower lip, catching the light like syrup under moonlight. Zyran sighed, deep and slow, like a man melting into velvet sheets. His lashes fluttered, and for a second, his entire expression looked sinful—like he was tasting more than just fruit.

Isabella stared—then abruptly looked down, her pulse thudding in her throat. Heat bloomed beneath her skin, her fingers curling slightly as she blinked hard.

No. Nope. She wasn't doing this.

"Is he… growing apples now?" she muttered, irritated by her own reaction. Her voice came out strained.

Luca, who was barely a step behind Kian, shuffled like someone realizing they were in a very private moment. He leaned in, voice low but still too loud. "This feels personal. Should I… should I leave?"

"Don't you dare," Isabella hissed without looking at him.

"Just checking."

She lifted her eyes only to find Zyran still chewing, like this was a wine-tasting event and not… whatever this was.

Her gaze darted to Kian's unreadable profile—calm, stiff, annoyingly attractive in a ruthless kind of way—and then back to Zyran, who had just licked the juice off his thumb like a cat.

She was surrounded by demons.

And possibly going insane.

Why was her life turning into this chaotic mess of glowing fruit, shirtless men, and confusingly hot moments that felt like traps?

Kian stared up at the man like he was assessing whether he was high, divine, or just a prank sent by the universe to test his patience.

The guards? Still on gaurd. Still confused. One of them sneezed and was glared at by the other.

The men who came for Isabella? Probably reconsidering their life choice and if she was even worth all this trouble anymore.

Luca cleared his throat, "Soo… is no one gonna talk about the apple thing? No? Okay, just me then."

Isabella rubbed her forehead.

And then Zyran smiled lazily, as if finally choosing to speak—right after he finished chewing that ridiculous apple bite with exaggerated slowness.

"What matters is that I am here to help you, because you obviously can't take them all down," Zyran said, casually biting into a red apple like he was lounging in a royal courtyard and not in the middle of a potential bloodbath.

His tone was maddeningly calm, his red eyes half-lidded, and every slow chew of the fruit sounded like an insult.

"There are only five of them. We can handle them," Luca replied, standing tall with arms crossed, his voice sharp with confidence—but his gaze flicked warily between the bushes and the weapon Kian held at the ready. He wasn't stupid. Arrows don't fly themselves. Someone else had been there, watching. Waiting.

This wasn't about bravado. Luca wanted Zyran to admit whose side he was truly on—no riddles, no smug fruit-chewing, just clarity. Because at this point, Zyran could either be a trickster or a savior, and nobody had time for a gamble.

"Oh? Is that so?" Zyran drawled, not even glancing at Luca. Instead, he twisted the apple lazily in his palm, inspecting it as if it held the answers to the universe. "You're very confident, warrior boy."

Luca's brow twitched. "What do you mean by that?"

But Zyran didn't answer. Instead, he leaned back slightly against the trunk of a tree, took another bite, and stared into the distance as if bored with the entire situation. The crunch of the apple was the only sound for a moment, and it had never sounded more offensive.

Everyone's eyes were on him now—Isabella narrowed her gaze, watching him like a hawk; Kian's icy expression didn't change, but his bowstring was just a hair tighter. Tension clung to the air like the damp before a storm.

Meanwhile, off to the side, two of the Fangridge men whispered to each other behind a thick patch of fern.

"Do you think Master will know if we spare this one?" one of them asked, nodding toward Isabella.

"She seems clueless."

"He will know," the other whispered back. "He always does."

Their voices were low, hushed, like they feared the shadows would tattle on them. The first man swallowed hard and tightened his grip on the dagger at his side.

And then, without a word, Zyran finished the last bite of the apple. His sharp jaw worked the fruit slowly, dramatically, like he was savoring the final taste of something far more significant. Then, as if to prove he truly had no regard for personal space, rules, or sanity, he nonchalantly tossed the core straight toward Isabella.

It came fast, unexpected.

"Bastard!" Isabella hissed, jerking to the side on instinct, the core missing her face by inches and landing with a soft thud in the grass.

Her glare could've melted stone, and she peeked from behind Kian's shoulder like an annoyed cat thrown off her perch. But before she could throw back a retort, Zyran lifted a single finger.

And snapped.

The sound rang sharp and clean, like the crack of ice splitting in two.

In that instant, the tall, overgrown bushes lining the edge of the path shivered violently—then bent and flattened in synchronized motion, like invisible hands were sweeping the land clean.

Everyone's heads whipped toward the motion.

And what lay revealed beyond the greenery.