The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

It wasn't easy.

Even for a four-striped beastman like Kian, facing off against five enemies of equal rank was no walk through the caves. Every movement was brutal, calculated. The ground trembled beneath their weight as claws met steel, roars echoed through stone walls, and dust rose in sharp spirals under the moonlight.

Isabella could see it all—his white lion form darting between the attackers like a ghost, his massive frame soaked in moonlight and blood. He wasn't losing… but he wasn't exactly winning either.

And her heart twisted.

"We have to go down," she blurted, tapping Zyran's chest twice—gently, urgently.

Her fingertips barely grazed his skin, but he still looked down at her hand like it had committed a war crime.

"I don't care about anyone else but your safety," Zyran said, voice quiet but firm, like it was a fact carved into stone.

Isabella's head jerked up so fast she nearly broke her neck. She glared.

"And I don't care about you," she snapped, every syllable laced with heat. "Put me down. Kian needs help."

Even as the words left her mouth, her pride flinched.

Because she knew.

She knew if Zyran actually dropped her onto that battlefield, she'd last about three seconds before getting trampled, sliced, or eaten alive. She couldn't fight. She'd probably end up tripping over a rock and dying dramatically.

But still. Watching from above? Doing nothing while Kian fought for his life? That felt worse.

Zyran didn't move.

He just stared at her, his expression unreadable, like he was trying to decide if she was being brave or just unbelievably stupid.

"You can't even protect yourself," he finally said, voice low and laced with judgment, "and you care that much about him?"

Isabella opened her mouth, then shut it. Her fists clenched at her sides.

Zyran's lip twitched—not into a smile, but something darker. "I don't care about him," he said. "In fact, if he dies, that'd be one less problem for me. One less man in your orbit. Wouldn't that be nice? Less competition."

The nerve.

Her entire face contorted into a full scowl. "Whoever said you're in a competition with anyone?!"

Her voice cracked a little, and she hated that. She hated him for making her yell while still holding onto whatever magical male perfume he oozed. His stupid face. His stupid magic. His stupid arms that were warm and comfortable and—ugh, no, stop.

"Please," she said, voice dipping into something almost vulnerable. "Just let me down. Being up here and not doing anything is making me feel… awkward."

It wasn't just awkward.

It was helpless. Pointless. Like she was furniture being flown over a battlefield.

Zyran studied her for a moment longer. His expression softened just a fraction—still smug, still too composed—but there was a flicker of something… curious.

Without a word, he descended.

The air shifted around them, the golden barrier humming faintly like it recognized her frustration. Moonlight wrapped them both as Zyran landed gently, still keeping the shield in place. The sounds of battle were louder now—screams, growls, the clash of blades and claws—but inside the bubble, it was like being in a quiet eye of the storm.

Isabella's legs hit the ground softly.

She looked up at him, half out of breath, heart racing for reasons she refused to acknowledge. Zyran stood perfectly still, taller than her, broader, shadowed in soft gold. His dark hair brushed his jaw as he tilted his head, his eyes locked onto hers with maddening intensity.

She hated the way he was looking at her.

Like he already knew what she was going to say. Like he'd been waiting for it.

"What do you mean by this?" she demanded, voice sharp, frustrated, but not quite steady. Her arms folded, more to stop herself from shaking than anything else.

Zyran didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he tilted his head further, a slow grin stretching across his face—unapologetic, infuriating, stupidly attractive. The glint in his eyes screamed that he was enjoying this—every second of it. Her anger. Her helplessness. Her being this close.

"Well, you said being in the air and doing nothing made you feel awkward," Zyran said, his tone innocent, lips curving into the most infuriatingly pure smile she'd ever seen on someone so thoroughly inappropriate. "So I decided to put you on the ground. You're welcome."

It would've sounded sweet if he didn't say it like he was gift-wrapping a landmine.

Isabella stared at him.

Just stared. Hard. Like if she focused long enough, her rage might physically slap him across the face.

"…I have no words," she muttered.

"Don't tell me you actually expected me to let you into the battleground," Zyran added, waving a hand in the air like he was swatting away a dumb idea.

He gestured around lazily, motioning to the golden barrier that still shimmered faintly between them and the war zone outside.

Isabella rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't fall out. "Obviously not. I'm not suicidal."

But then something strange happened.

Because what she thought was just a gesture—a dramatic little wave of the hand from Mr. Over-The-Top—was actually magic.

A subtle pulse of power, so smooth it almost went unnoticed.

Almost.

Outside the dome, one of the assassins had broken through a gap in the defense and was lunging straight at Kian. The beastman barely managed to dodge—and just as the enemy swung again, he was blasted back by a flicker of Zyran's magic.

Kian staggered, caught his footing, and whipped around. His lion eyes narrowed in the direction the spell had come from.

And then, for a split second—he saw them.

Kian's gaze cut through the chaos, straight to the glowing dome.

Inside, Zyran stood with ease, arms loose, aura humming, the golden barrier curling around him like it belonged to him. And beside him… Isabella.

She didn't see him watching.

She wasn't even looking in his direction.

But Kian saw her. Standing too close to the wrong man, too still, too trusting.

They looked like a portrait someone had painted in a fever dream—moonlight, magic, and something unspoken between them.

Kian's expression didn't flicker.

No growl. No fury. Just a subtle shift in the air around him, like the quiet before a storm chooses violence.

His eyes moved from Zyran… to her.

And lingered.

Just long enough.

Then he turned back to the battle, jaw tightening, and ripped through the next attacker like nothing had happened.

"Let me out," Isabella said sharply, snapping Zyran's attention back to her.

Her voice cracked a little, but she didn't care.

Zyran blinked at her, lips quirking like he knew exactly what was going on inside her head.

"Out?" he echoed.

"Yes," she repeated, arms folded tight. "Let. Me. Out."

At this point, it wasn't even about helping Kian anymore. Not really. It was about escaping Zyran. Escaping his voice, his stupidly attractive smile, his presence that wrapped around her like silk she didn't ask for.

He was too close again. Too smug. Too warm. And she remembered—that night.

How her body had betrayed her before. How he had leaned in, whispered something sinful in her ear, and she hadn't pushed him away fast enough.

He was affecting her again, and she hated it.

She needed space.

She needed to breathe.

But just as Zyran opened his mouth to deliver what she knew was going to be the most unbearable, sarcastic comeback in history…

His eyes snapped past her shoulder.

And something changed.

His entire posture shifted—from smug to dangerously still—and Isabella could tell.

He wasn't looking at her anymore.

He was looking through her.

At something coming.

Fast.