The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

The moment Zyran dropped his concealment spell, everyone snapped back into chaos.

Figures surged out of the darkness like they'd been waiting—because they had. Arrows already notched, the Fangridge assassins didn't even blink. Their heads turned in eerie unison, scanning the moonlit space with glowing predator eyes.

And the second Isabella was spotted—nestled in the stranger's arms—they hesitated.

Just for a second.

Confusion cracked across their expressions like a ripple. Who the hell was this man holding her?

But their leader—tall, with stitched furs and rage—lifted two fingers in the air. A silent command.

Release.

In a flash, arrows tore through the air with deadly precision, slicing the moonlight.

Isabella's breath hitched in her throat.

Her fingers dug into Zyran's bare chest—uncomfortably sculpted and annoyingly inviting—but terror made modesty feel optional.

She shut her eyes and braced for the searing pain of death.

It never came.

Wind screamed past her ears as Zyran launched into the sky, the speed dizzying. She felt the ground vanish beneath them. The world tipped and blurred. A second later, a flash of golden light exploded in a circle around them—a barrier.

The arrows collided mid-air and shattered against the invisible dome with metallic thuds.

"Open your eyes, love," Zyran's voice was smug and maddeningly calm, right beside her ear. "It wounds me that you still know fear... even in my arms."

Her lashes fluttered open like betrayed butterflies, and she met his face with a deadpan stare.

"Don't talk to me," she snapped, frowning as if he'd just spilled goat's milk on her dress.

It was hard to tell if she was more offended by the attack or by his audacity.

Zyran's grin curled lazily, unbothered. "Charming, as always."

Only then did Isabella register where they were—suspended high above the battlefield. The palace grounds below looked like a war painting brought to life.

Moonlight spilled across the stone steps and blood-slicked dirt, casting long, jagged shadows. The guards were already knee-deep in combat, spears clashing with steel and claws. Cyrus, no longer the calm boy with a sweet smile, now slithered like something divine through the chaos.

His serpent form glistened with red scales, massive, coiled, and fluid. He moved like water with murder in its veins—silent, graceful, deadly.

One assassin lunged toward a fallen guard, but before his blade could strike, Cyrus snapped forward, jaws wide. CRACK. The man was yanked into the air and slammed into the ground so hard the earth shook.

Isabella blinked. "Oh."

But her gaze was drawn further, to a blur of movement tearing across the left flank.

Kian.

No… that wasn't Kian.

Not in his human skin.

What she saw now—bounding through fire and bone—was a massive white lion. Fur like crushed pearls. Eyes like frozen lightning. He moved like royalty born from ice, every swipe of his paw ripping through bodies like they were paper.

Isabella's breath caught.

He looked like a god sculpted from snow and fury. He wasn't even fighting. He was punishing.

"Wow," she whispered, lips parting as the moon caught in his fur.

Zyran's eye twitched.

"I am the one saving your life right now, Isabella," he bit out, voice sharp with disbelief. "You should be more impressed with me."

She didn't even look at him.

Still watching Kian, she slowly tilted her head, then, with exaggerated slowness, raised one perfectly sculpted brow.

"I don't like you," Isabella said flatly.

She didn't even bother looking at him when she said it. Her eyes were still locked on Kian—who, in his glowing white lion form, was fighting like some mythic creature carved out of starlight. It wasn't fair how majestic he looked. The way he moved—silent, graceful, lethal—was enough to make her forget, just for a moment, that she was in the arms of a very unfair man.

Zyran, of course, smirked.

A slow, devil-may-care curl of his lips. One that could probably ruin kingdoms if paired with the right lighting. The moonlight glinted off his sharp jawline and the single dimple that only showed up when he was amused—which was often, when she was annoyed.

"But your body," he said, voice dropping into a velvety whisper laced with that insufferable confidence, "isn't saying the same thing, is it?"

Isabella's eyes snapped open wide.

Her head whipped up so fast she nearly hit his chin. Her entire face flushed—rage, embarrassment, whatever it was, it came in hot. Her fingers clenched his shoulder, and for a second, she seriously contemplated smacking him right in his stupidly perfect, smug face.

How could someone be this shameless?

Why did he have to sound so unfairly attractive while doing it?

"You—! Ugh—We both know you always use magic on me," she blurted, grasping for the first excuse her pride could come up with.

Zyran's chuckle was deep, low, and criminal. He tilted his head slightly, that loose strand of dark hair falling over one eye as he looked down at her like she was his favorite game.

"Magic on you?" he echoed, voice dipping into something playful. Dangerous. Deadly attractive.

Then, with a wicked smile that made her heart skip in spite of herself—

"Beauty, I am magic."

Isabella's brain gave up.

She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but no words came out. Her mind was blank, her pride crumbling under the weight of his audacity.

She hated this.

She hated him.

She hated how he smelled like something addictive—wild air and burnt spice. How his arms felt like stone and heat. How his voice crawled under her skin like it had a key to every part of her. And worst of all—how her heart would not calm down.

She crossed her arms, huffing, turning her face away like a child throwing a tantrum.

Zyran, meanwhile, didn't even flinch.

Because, truthfully? He wasn't entirely lying.

There was… something about him. An energy. A natural seductive pull that clung to his skin like smoke. People noticed it everywhere he went—it wasn't his fault. But when it came to Isabella… he may or may not amplify it a little. Just a touch of magic. A whisper of enchantment. Enough to unsettle her, never to control her.

He told himself it was harmless.

And technically? It wasn't magic on her. It was magic around him. He just wanted to make sure she stayed distracted. That she looked at him the way she looked at Kian.

Was it wrong?

…Maybe.

But gods, she was like a little wildcat with her claws constantly out. Always spitting fire and flinging insults. Yet the second she was in his arms, she froze—like she didn't know what to do with herself. Like the game changed, and she hated losing.

He found it adorable.

No, worse—he found her irresistible.

Below them, the sounds of battle raged on. Cyrus—massive, elegant, terrifying in his snake form—was almost done wiping out the shooters. He moved with divine grace, a guardian and a weapon in one. The only reason he was still fighting at all was because he kept stopping to help the injured. Of course he did. That was just… Cyrus.

But Kian—Kian was having a bit of difficulty.