The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Just as Isabella turned, about to snap at him again, Zyran suddenly pulled her close—tight.

One arm locked around her waist while the other cradled the back of her head, guiding it firmly to his chest. She barely had a second to flinch before she was fully engulfed by him—warm, solid, and annoyingly… comforting?

"Zy—"

"Shh," he whispered, lips brushing her ear, his voice low and deliberate. "I promised the lion I'd protect you, love. How could I possibly let you go?"

His tone was softer than usual. Too soft. Distractingly soft.

Meanwhile, his left hand moved discreetly behind her, fingers sparking with invisible magic—raw, clean, and eerily quiet. A pulse of light rippled behind her, followed by the faintest hissss, like air being sucked out of the universe. Something had just been… erased.

Isabella's brow twitched.

There was no blood, no blast, no screaming. Just… silence. Too silent.

Suspicion crept into her chest. She tilted her head slightly, but his hand gently—purposefully—kept her from turning.

Oh. She knew this game. She knew it too well.

This man had the gall to weaponize affection like it was nothing.

"Zyran…" she said, voice tight with warning.

He looked down at her with those stupidly pretty, dark-red eyes. Eyes that always looked like they knew something you didn't. Because they probably did.

She shoved at his chest. Not enough to break free—but enough to say something.

"I said," she muttered, voice rising, "you promised to protect me. You never said we'd be standing here like wall art! Useless! Just glowing in a magic bubble while everyone's out there bleeding!"

Zyran blinked slowly, like she was a child throwing a tantrum about bedtime.

"I'm not useless," he said simply.

"You know that's not what I meant!" she snapped. "I know you can end this. You could take them all down if you wanted to. So why are you still up here pretending to be a—what, a prince with delicate wrists?!" (what if he was though?)

She stared up at him, chin tilted in challenge. Her eyes blazed, mouth set in that fierce little pout she always got when she was seconds from kicking someone in the shins.

Zyran's lips twitched. Her anger looked almost adorable. Like a kitten threatening to maul a panther.

"And what makes you think that?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze.

"I just know, okay?!" Isabella shot back, folding her arms as if she could armor herself with sheer willpower.

Her face was flushed—part frustration, part adrenaline—but beneath it, he could feel something else. Something panicked. She was scared. Not for herself. Not for him.

For Kian. Maybe even Cyrus too.

She never said his name—not once. But Zyran noticed the way her eyes kept flicking toward that red snake in the distance.

Every time.

And every time, she'd only relax once she saw he was still holding his own. Still breathing. Still standing.

Zyran's jaw clenched slightly.

A pause stretched between them.

Then, he smiled. Not sweetly. Not softly. That dangerous, smug grin that never meant anything good for anyone's sanity.

"If I help them," he said, "you'll grant me three things."

Isabella blinked.

Then blinked again.

Her entire soul left her body for a moment.

"Three what now?" she gasped, jerking back like he'd just asked her to sell her organs. "Zyran, what is wrong with you?! This is not the time for your weird little games!"

"It's exactly the time," Zyran said—too calm, too steady—as if they weren't surrounded by chaos. He didn't even look at her at first, just dusted off his shoulder like this was a social call.

Then his eyes flicked to hers, sharp and unreadable.

"In fact," he added, "I think it's the perfect time."

Isabella narrowed her eyes.

He tilted his head slightly. "Because while you're over here arguing with me—Kian is five seconds away from getting torn apart. And unlike you, he doesn't have a barrier wrapped around him."

Her breath caught. Zyran didn't stop.

"People are dying, love. Your people. The guards you walked past earlier? The ones that bowed to you? They're on the ground now. Some aren't getting back up."

His voice wasn't cold. It wasn't cruel. It was maddeningly casual, like he was just stating facts. But each one sliced clean through her chest.

"And if they lose," he added, gaze darkening just slightly, "this village doesn't make it to sunrise."

That's when she felt it. The knot in her stomach. The ache of helplessness blooming behind her ribs.

Her lips parted, but before she could speak, Zyran casually raised one hand and flicked his fingers.

The barrier around them shimmered, just slightly.

It was almost nothing.

Almost.

But the second it rippled—Isabella felt the shift.

Far ahead, one of the attackers suddenly froze mid-attack before an invisible force blasted him back like he'd been yanked by the gods themselves. He hit the ground hard, rolling.

Kian, who'd been seconds from impact, staggered back—just a breath short of being skewered. His chest heaved. For a moment, his head turned.

He didn't flinch. Didn't shout.

But his gaze landed on Zyran… then drifted.

To her.

Isabella didn't see it.

She was too busy staring at the spot where the enemy had fallen, eyes wide and unblinking.

"Oh no," she whispered. "He's… he's losing…"

Her heart pounded in her throat like it was trying to escape. The pressure in her head spiked, and her hands balled into fists.

"Let me out," she snapped, her voice tight and trembling as she turned on Zyran.

He didn't move.

She was shaking now, barely breathing.

And then—

Isabella looked around to confirm his words and to her horror, he was right.

The space that had once felt distant—like a stage she was just watching—was now a battlefield soaked in blood and smoke.

The barrier around her muffled the sound, but it couldn't silence the carnage. Couldn't hide the way bodies crumpled to the dirt like ragdolls. Couldn't erase the way blood splattered across stone, the way screams twisted into silence.

She locked eyes with one of the guards—a young man, no older than Luca. He'd just taken a blade to the side, stumbling back with blood leaking from his mouth. Another beastman grabbed him before he could fall, but it was already too late. His eyes were wide, confused. Like he didn't understand what was happening. Like he hadn't expected this to be the end.

Isabella's throat closed.

Kian was still fighting, but he was slowing. His movements had lost their crispness—his footing just a half-second too late, his strikes more desperate than calculated. There was blood on his fur. His claws. His jaws.

Too much blood.

He looked like a king dying for his kingdom.

And all she had done was stand there—warm and untouched inside a glowing shield while everyone else bled for something bigger than themselves.

Her fingers curled in. Nails bit into her palms.

She'd always been the selfish one. The one who looked out for herself first, second, and third. In another life, she would've stayed behind the barrier and justified it. It's not my fight. What can I even do? I'm not strong like them.

But ever since she stepped into this world—into their world—everything had changed.

They had changed her.

She'd learned that there was more to life than simply surviving. More than snatching power or staying out of danger. There was value in fighting for others. In kindness. In trying, even if you failed.

Her eyes stung, but she didn't cry.

She took a breath and turned toward Zyran, face pale but steady. Her voice came out quieter than she meant it to, but it didn't shake.

"…Fine. I agree."