The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

What lay behind the bushes made, Isabella's skin crawl.

Two dozen armed men—all powerful, tense, and far too organized to be mere wanderers—lay crouched in the underbrush. Their dark eyes scanned the clearing beyond, weapons tight in hand, breath held. They were waiting.

From Fangridge City.

Isabella's heart stuttered. She took an instinctive step back, her mind already racing. What did I do? she thought wildly, pulse thudding in her ears.

"Eh... it can't be that serious," she muttered, a shaky laugh slipping from her lips as she turned to the others behind her. Maybe it was a misunderstanding, a coincidence—maybe—

But they weren't moving.

Not Kian. Not Luca. Not the guards. Not the five men.

Not even the wind.

Every figure stood frozen—like statues caught mid-breath, their expressions still and glassy, their limbs unmoving. Even the leaves overhead no longer swayed.

Isabella's breath caught in her throat.

No.

No—this wasn't fear anymore. This was wrong.

Her gaze jerked upward, to the wide oak tree where a certain someone still resided. The same tree someone had been lounging in earlier—carefree, infuriatingly calm.

Zyran.

He was still there. Perched like a predator, his black hair catching faint streaks of moonlight in the dark, one leg dangling lazily over the branch while the other rested against the bark.

And he was watching.

Her stomach dropped. Her entire body stilled.

"Y-you—" The word barely escaped her lips, dry and broken, before her mind caught up to the enormity of what was happening.

He had done this.

He had frozen everything—not with theatrics or spells or scrolls, but with nothing. No gesture, no word. Not even a change in his expression.

Just will.

And not just anyone—he had frozen Kian.

The realization hit harder than a slap. That was Kian. The same man whose presence alone could shut a room up, whose fury could make soldiers tremble—and yet Zyran had rendered him a mannequin in a blink.

She stared up at him, unable to stop herself. Her mind buzzed with possibilities—who was he? What sort of beastman could do this? Why had he followed her around like a stray when he had power like this?

Zyran's gaze lazily shifted from the sky to her. And then, he moved.

He didn't climb down. He glided. Like a wisp. A shadow.

The moment his feet touched the earth, Isabella's legs gave out from under her.

The brush of power in the air had shifted—dense now, like the world was holding its breath. She stumbled backwards on instinct, falling, her breath catching in the split-second she realized she wasn't going to make the landing—

But he caught her.

Not just caught her—he swept her up like it was nothing. Like she weighed as much as a leaf in the breeze.

His arm curled under her back, her waist snug in his hold, and for a moment she was suspended in a bizarre kind of limbo—held against a man she didn't understand, in a world that had literally stopped moving.

Then his legs hit the ground.

Gently. Too gently.

"Love," Zyran said, voice low and honey-smooth as he leaned in close—his mouth so near her ear that she could feel the curl of his smile against her skin.

"You should close your mouth when you stare."

Isabella's heart skipped so violently she could hear it in her ears.

His breath brushed her neck like silk.

Her cheeks flared. Heat rose. Her throat closed.

But she didn't dare move.

She didn't even blink.

Because her body hadn't decided whether it was terrified—or thrilled.

Zyran stood there holding her like a bride, his smirk pressed against her ear, his red eyes calm. Almost bored.

And the silence was maddening.

The world hadn't resumed. Not even the guards flinched in the distance.

It was just the two of them.

And she was very aware of her legs not touching the ground.

"Put me down," Isabella said sharply, her voice breaking through the thick haze clouding her mind.

Her trance shattered.

Zyran blinked, tilting his head slightly as if he hadn't quite heard her. His red eyes studied her with unshaken calm, arms still firm beneath her legs and back.

"Hmm?"

The way he looked at her was wrong—no, not wrong. It was unsettling. Not because he seemed threatening, but because he didn't. Because he was looking at her with such confidence, such ease, like this moment wasn't fractured at all.

"What? What is it?" Isabella asked again, breath quickening. Her voice didn't carry the weight it should've. It sounded smaller than she intended.

Her body tensed in his arms. Her brain was spiraling in every possible direction. She couldn't find stable ground. Couldn't even catch a solid thought to hold on to.

Men had come looking for her. Not just any men—killers. Their eyes had confirmed it, the way they scanned her like she was a target they had finally cornered.

And then there was him.

Zyran.

Zyran, who had shown up like it was nothing. Who carried her like she weighed less than a handful of feathers. Who wasn't—couldn't be—ordinary.

A regular man couldn't move like that. Couldn't appear out of nowhere. Couldn't glance at danger and laugh.

What the hell was he?

Why does she keep attracting this kind of madness?

She had just wanted a bath. She had just wanted to sleep. But life was like, 'No babe, you get assassins. You get secrets. You get this tall, smug, dangerous man who wants to kiss you while you're emotionally imploding.'

Her mind turned to sludge. Her brows furrowed, lips parting as if she could breathe her stress out.

Her eyes dropped to her hands, curled tightly in the fabric of Zyran's cloak.

It was too much.

Zyran's gaze flicked down to her, and something in him shifted. That lazy, teasing glint he always wore dimmed. The smirk tugging at his lips disappeared.

And for once, he didn't look like he was about to make some inappropriate joke. He just looked at her. Fully. Carefully.

"It's okay," he said softly, almost too gently for someone like him.

Isabella looked up, eyes flickering with uncertainty.

"I won't let anyone ever cause harm to you," he said, brushing his thumb across her cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His touch was warm. Solid. A strange contrast to the whirlwind tearing through her chest.

She let out a long, quiet sigh.

She didn't know what to believe anymore. She didn't know if she should feel comforted or manipulated. Safe or terrified.

"Why are you here?" she asked finally, needing something real to latch on to. A reason. An explanation. Anything.

Zyran's eyes twinkled.

"For a kiss."

Her brain short-circuited.

"WHAT?"

That wasn't what she expected.

Not a threat. Not a speech. Not a declaration of war or secret motives. Just—a kiss?

"Are you serious?" she asked, blinking rapidly, her tone climbing.

Zyran didn't reply. He didn't give her a chance to throw another question at him. He didn't even ask for permission.

He just leaned in, the space between them evaporating in a heartbeat.

And then his lips met hers.

The moonlight above bore silent witness. The wind stilled. The night itself seemed to hold its breath.

Isabella froze.

Not because she was shocked. Not because the kiss was forceful or urgent. It wasn't.

It was soft.

Too soft.

And maybe that's what broke her.

Because she had no defenses left for gentle.

Her heart cracked open, messy and vulnerable. She'd spent so long building walls, learning to survive, learning to lie, learning to pretend—she didn't know what to do when someone touched her like she was something precious.

For a long, silent second, her fingers curled into his cloak again. Her body, tense at first, softened against him—then stiffened again, unsure what to choose.

She didn't return the kiss. But she didn't push him away.

She couldn't.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn't feel like prey.

She felt… held.

And that terrified her even more.