The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

No—she really did feel betrayed.

Even if her logical side whispered that Kian wasn't wrong to make this decision, her chest still burned. She kept her expression steady, but inside, a cold coil of resentment twisted.

This wasn't just about her safety. She knew that. Kian was thinking strategically—he always was—but logic didn't erase the sting. And worse, the moment her eyes flicked to Zyran and caught his gaze, her gut clenched.

Zyran hadn't stopped watching her since the negotiation started, not once. His stare was patient. Calculated. Like he was waiting for the first crack to form.

She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to stay calm.

"Now you'll have to come here, love," Zyran said, his voice smooth, sweet, and threatening all at once, like honey poured over a blade. "Because things are about to get violent."

He stood casually at the edge of the stone ridge, arms folded leisurely over his chest, posture relaxed—but the air around him felt ready to snap. Like a bowstring pulled too tight.

Isabella didn't move.

Her hand remained clutched tightly on Kian's arm—so tight now, her knuckles turned pale. She hadn't even realized it until Zyran's eyes flicked down, catching the motion. His smirk didn't falter, but something shifted in his gaze—something darker, colder. Possessive.

"She can stay with me," Kian said, his tone low and even, his voice cutting through the tense air like steel as his eyes met Zyran's without flinching. He didn't look away. He wouldn't.

Zyran's grin widened just slightly. "Well, our dear lion king, do you see the way those shooters are positioned?"

His hand rose, a slow deliberate motion as he gestured toward the Fangridge archers. They crouched stiff and still, unmoving, caught in the shimmering edge of Zyran's spell—bows drawn, arrows aimed, frozen mid-threat.

A breathless silence fell. Even the wind seemed to hold still.

Kian's eyes followed the gesture. One glance was all it took. He could see it clearly now—if that spell dropped, Isabella would be the first target. They were all zeroed in on her. She was the only outlier, the only wildcard. They were ready to eliminate her first.

Zyran turned back, still smiling like he wasn't forcing the hand of a king in broad daylight, or rather nighttime (anyone works).

"The moment I lift the spell, they shoot. And well," he said, tilting his head playfully, "who knows if those arrows are poisoned?"

The words slammed into Kian's chest like a fist.

He said nothing.

But inside, everything warred.

Just the thought of Isabella getting hurt—hell, even grazed—unleashed something ugly beneath his skin. His mind flashed to the scene: her body dropping to the ground, blood pooling under her, her eyes wide and shocked, his hands failing to hold her together in time.

His jaw tensed.

No. He couldn't—wouldn't—let that happen.

He didn't give a damn if it meant caving for now. He didn't give a damn if it made him look like a fool. Not when it came to her. Never when it came to her.

"Oh please," Isabella snapped suddenly, her voice cutting through the heavy silence like a slap. "You can protect me yourself, can you not?"

She turned to Kian, trying to pull him back to her side, to cut through the icy logic that she saw slowly encasing him.

Because she could feel the decision he was weighing.

There was no way she was going into Zyran's arms again.

Not after what he always did to her when he had the chance.

That man never missed an opportunity to flirt, smirk, lean too close—or worse, use that annoyingly powerful magic of his to make her feel things she had no business feeling.

It wasn't fair. She could face down beasts, climb mountains, make soap out of tree bark—but one look from Zyran and suddenly her brain short-circuited like a wet fire.

She hated him.

She feared him.

Because Zyran was shameless.

Not the "oops, I said something bold" kind of shameless. No—Zyran was the "I'll make you blush until your soul leaves your body and then call it foreplay" kind of shameless.

And he always twisted everything to his advantage. Just like now.

Kian stood in front of her, his expression unreadable. But she knew him well enough to see the crack. A faint furrow in his brow, a tiny twitch in his jaw—he was wavering. Caught between whatever silent kingly decision he was weighing and the protective instinct that usually flared whenever someone so much as looked at her wrong.

Meanwhile, Zyran looked like a cat about to pounce. His fingers flexed casually at his side, like he was growing bored—or worse, amused. His smile said go on, entertain me.

And that only made Isabella double down.

She tightened her grip on Kian's arm, planting her feet like she was digging her heels into the earth itself. Her voice dropped, not trembling, but sly—coaxing.

"Out of everyone alive… him?" Isabella's voice was low, calm—but there was steel underneath. "You're really throwing me at him like I'm some kind of offering?"

Kian's breath hitched.

It wasn't a plea. It wasn't an accusation either.

It was a warning. A reminder. Of who she was to him—and who she was about to slap if he didn't say something soon.

Zyran raised a brow, clearly delighted.

Kian's jaw tensed. He looked back at Zyran, eyes narrowing.

The moment of decision was drawing near.

"You can have her," Kian finally said flatly, stepping away like he was returning a borrowed item he no longer wanted.

"Excuse me?!" Isabella gasped, her jaw dropping with a mix of disbelief and betrayal. "Unfreeze Cyrus! I trust him—"

She wasn't even halfway through her protest when her feet lifted off the ground.

"WAIT—!"

Too late. Her body soared midair with no warning, snatched like a sack of yams and dropped unceremoniously into Zyran's arms.

"Goddess secured," Zyran announced with the deadpan pride of a soldier reporting to base.

Isabella blinked.

"What the actual—?!"

At that exact moment, as if a spell broke, everyone who had been frozen suddenly unfroze—blinking, stumbling, gasping—some even in the middle of awkward half-breaths or mid-blinks.