The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Cyrus gave her his usual nod, that quiet acknowledgment of hers, accompanied this time by a faint smile tugging at his lips. Isabella, who had been staring at him longer than she should have, instantly dropped her gaze.

Her cheeks felt oddly warm. Huh. That was strange. It wasn't like she hadn't seen him smile before, but for some reason tonight it made her feel… lighter. Happier.

Cyrus's attention drifted toward the corner where Isabella usually slept. The fur hides and mats there were in disarray, as though a small storm had rolled through. Glimora had apparently been that storm, messing it all up again before finally giving in to drowsiness.

"I'll make your bed for you," Cyrus said calmly. His tone was as steady as a mountain stream, and when Isabella glanced up, that same gentle smile was still on his face.

For a heartbeat, she was tempted to protest. She could do it herself, after all; she wasn't helpless. The thought of refusing rose to her lips, but another part of her—traitorous and curious—chose silence. Instead, she simply watched him as he rolled up his sleeves and bent over the tangle of hides.

"Handsome, isn't he?" she whispered under her breath, lips curling into a secret grin as she peered down at Glimora nestled in her arms.

The little beast was halfway to sleep, eyelids drooping heavily. Still, the soft sound of Isabella's voice made her peek one bright blue eye open. The glow of it was sleepy and innocent, and in that dazed little look, Isabella's heart just about melted.

And then, as if the tiny creature had understood her words, Glimora's muzzle shifted into what could only be called a smile.

"Yes, Mama. I support you."

That's what it looked like she was saying.

Isabella bit down on her lower lip to smother the sound, but it was useless. The giggle slipped free anyway—light, airy, girlish—spilling from her throat before she could stop it. It bounced off the stone walls of the chamber, soft but impossible to ignore, the kind of sound that drew attention without meaning to.

Across the room, Cyrus's hands stilled. He had been smoothing down the edge of the fur hide, long fingers precise in their movements, every motion calm and efficient as always. But the sound of her laughter cut through the steady rhythm of his task, and his head turned almost instinctively.

His eyes, sharp as a blade but softened now, found her instantly. Isabella sat curled with Glimora nestled in her arms, the small creature half-dozing, her tufted ears twitching faintly as Isabella buried her nose against her fur. The sight of it was so tender that Cyrus froze, caught in the moment.

Her shoulders shook with quiet amusement. She pressed her face closer into Glimora's fur, crinkling her nose in that way she did whenever she tried to hide a smile. And yet the curve of her lips betrayed her anyway—bright, unguarded joy spilling across her face.

For a long moment, Cyrus simply watched her.

And something inside him stirred.

He wasn't a man given to indulgence. His heart was steady, his emotions disciplined, his instincts contained. But the sight of Isabella like this—the softness of her features, the warmth in her arms, the way she seemed to glow in her own quiet happiness—struck him in a place he had carefully kept locked away.

He felt… happy.

Happy in a way that slipped past his control, sneaking into his chest like sunlight breaking through the cracks of an old wall. It startled him, but he didn't push it away. Not yet.

Then, without warning, a thought came to him.

It was not invited, not asked for, but it took hold of him and refused to let go.

Isabella. With their hatchlings.

The image bloomed in his mind with startling clarity. He could see it as if it were happening in front of him: Isabella with her arms full of small, squirming bodies, her smile brighter than he had ever seen. Her laughter, warm and easy, filling the air as she pressed gentle kisses to the tops of their heads. Whispering nonsense words the way she did to Glimora. Cradling them close.

His throat tightened. The warmth that surged in his chest was overwhelming, a fierce flood that threatened to drown him. It was too much, too raw.

Because it was perfect.

Too perfect.

She would be a perfect mother. He could see it now, undeniable and absolute. Her gentleness, her strength, her boundless patience—it all fit. It all belonged.

And for one fragile heartbeat, he allowed himself the fantasy. Allowed himself to believe that maybe, in some other world, that image could be real. That maybe she could laugh like that with him, for him. That maybe she could look at their hatchlings with love in her eyes, and at him with something softer still.

But just as quickly as it came, he crushed it.

His jaw tightened, the muscles working as he dropped his gaze back to the hides beneath his hands. The warmth in his chest burned, then cooled, then hardened into something heavy. His fingers pressed into the fur with unnecessary force, as though grounding himself back into reality.

Because that was all it could ever be. A fantasy.

A wish.

And wishes were dangerous. Especially for him.

His master's voice returned to him, cruel and unrelenting, echoing like a ghost in the hollows of his mind: Who could ever truly love a monster?

The answer had always been the same. It had been carved into him, pressed into his bones, until it was less a belief and more a truth he lived by.

No one.

No one could.

So why would he, Cyrus—born of the snake tribe, branded with the weight of their reputation, trained to be nothing but a weapon—be any different?

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself, forcing the thought away. The flicker of hope, the fragile image of a family, dissolved into smoke. He didn't deserve it. He couldn't afford it. And most of all—he couldn't let himself want it.

His hands resumed their work, calm and deliberate once more. His face smoothed back into neutrality, as if the storm inside him had never stirred at all.

But still, his eyes lingered on Isabella for one moment longer. Just one.

And that single moment betrayed him. Because no matter how hard he fought it, no matter how deeply he buried it, the truth was already there.

He wanted it.

He wanted her.