The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Isabella felt Cyrus's gaze on her before she even turned. It was subtle—he never looked at her with the brazen weight of someone who wanted to be noticed. His stare was always quiet, almost reverent, like he was tracing the lines of her face for memory's sake. When she finally lifted her head to catch him, she did so with a smile still curving her lips, the kind of smile she couldn't quite suppress even if she tried.

"Cyrus?" she called softly, tilting her head as her voice dropped to that gentle lilt she used when she was trying not to disturb anyone else. His stillness made her uneasy. "Is anything the matter?"

For a heartbeat, he didn't move, only blinked as though pulled back from some faraway thought. Then, the haze cleared. He focused on her again, lips tugging upward with his usual calm smile.

"Your bed is ready," he said. His voice was smooth, steady as ever, though there was a quiet satisfaction laced in it this time. He smoothed down the last of the hides with deliberate care, fingers grazing the seams until everything lay flat. And, because he couldn't help himself, he let a whisper of his magic seep through, invisible threads of warmth soaking into the bedding. It would hold through the night, just enough to ward off the bite of the cold that always clung to this part of the palace.

He always did this. She never knew, but it had become a ritual. Since sleep rarely held him for long, he had grown used to slipping awake every few hours, checking the corner where she lay to make sure she was still comfortable. And over time, he'd learned things—small, intimate truths about Isabella that she herself probably didn't realize she revealed.

For instance, she hated waking to stiff hides that scratched her arms; he made sure they were softened before she lay down. She always tugged the blanket up high, almost to her chin, so he wove in extra warmth around the upper layer. If the bed was too warm, though, she kicked it all away and shivered later, so he adjusted it just enough to keep her balanced, never smothered. She liked space, but not too much—always curling herself to one side as though leaving room for something, or someone.

And then there was the part that fascinated him most: she talked in her sleep.

The first time, he had been startled, glancing around to see if she had woken. But no—her eyes were shut, her breathing deep, her voice a whisper of thoughts untamed.

Through those unconscious murmurs, he'd discovered tiny secrets. Nothing too sharp, nothing too clear, but just enough to piece her together in ways she'd never willingly hand over. He knew she dreamed about food—often, and with startling passion. Sometimes her lips would part and she'd mumble names of meals she'd cooked, or wanted to cook, her tone so wistful it tugged at his chest. Other times, she scolded invisible people in her dreams, brows furrowing while her lips moved with sass even in sleep. And then there were nights when her words turned soft, vulnerable, whispers of fears and wishes she probably didn't even admit while awake.

Those were the nights he found hardest. Because when she frowned or shifted restlessly, something in him ached. So, without hesitation, he would ease her suffering with his power—settling the air, weaving away the chill, smoothing her dreams so the crease in her brow would fade.

Watching over her had become second nature, something he did without thought. And yet tonight, as he stepped back from her bed, he found himself admitting silently that it wasn't just duty. It was because she mattered to him.

Cyrus rose to his feet with his usual quiet grace, brushing his hands free of stray threads of hide as he walked over to where Isabella still stood with Glimora tucked in her arms. His steps barely made a sound, but the air shifted with his approach, steady and certain.

"You can hand Glimora to me," he said, voice low and even, but there was a hint of softness under it that he couldn't quite mask. "Go to bed. I'll tuck her in."

For once, Isabella didn't argue. Her smile bloomed instantly, bright and trusting. "Ok." She held out the small, drowsy beast without hesitation, gently transferring Glimora into his waiting arms. Her hands brushed against his fingers in the process—light, fleeting, but enough to spark something in the air between them.

"Thank you, Cyrus," she said, her voice carrying that simple sweetness that always disarmed him.

He looked down at her as she said it, and she looked up at him with wide, earnest eyes, her gratitude shining clear. For a moment, something deep inside him stirred, something that felt like it could be dangerous if he allowed it to grow.

She turned to leave then, taking a step toward her newly-made bed, but paused mid-step as though struck by an idea. A spark lit in her eyes—mischief or tenderness, he couldn't tell—but she stopped, caught between moving on and acting on whatever had just bloomed in her mind.

"Cyrus?"

Her voice was soft but clear, carrying just enough weight to make him pause mid-step. He froze instantly, shoulders straight, before slowly turning back to face her. His soft pink eyes—calm as always—locked onto her, waiting.

Isabella's lips curled into the smallest smile as she lifted her hand, motioning him closer. "Come here," she said, her tone deliberately casual, though her fingers flicked in that impatient little way that told him she expected obedience.

Cyrus didn't even hesitate. He crossed the distance with quiet strides, each step measured, and when he reached her, he bent his tall frame down at once. He didn't ask why. He never did. If Isabella wanted something from him, he gave it—no questions.

The air shifted as he leaned in. His scent wrapped around her, faint but grounding, like stone cooled after rain. His face was suddenly so close that she could make out the tiny shadows along his jaw, the sharp line of his cheekbone.

And then—Isabella's gaze faltered.

Her eyes, traitorous, dipped down for a heartbeat too long, catching on his lips before she snapped them back up to meet his steady stare.

Cyrus saw it.

His breath caught in his chest, but he didn't move, didn't react. He simply looked at her, gaze unwavering, though the tips of his ears warmed.

Isabella, flustered but determined, leaned forward before her brain could protest. And before Cyrus's mind could process what was happening, her lips brushed against his cheek.

It was soft. Barely there. A feather-light kiss, quick but charged, like a spark that lingers long after the flame disappears.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Cyrus remained perfectly still, his entire body locked, as though one wrong twitch would shatter the fragile reality of what had just happened. Isabella, on the other hand, pulled back slowly, her lashes lowering, her breath shaky as her heart thudded against her ribs.

Her lips tingled. His skin burned. And in the small silence that followed, the whole world seemed to hold its breath.