The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Cyrus blinked once. Just once. But that single blink carried the weight of a man struck by a divine blow.

His entire face was red—redder than the embers in the hearth, redder than any sunset he had ever seen. Honestly, if anyone had compared him to a tomato right then, the tomato would have lost.

And then Isabella—sweet, reckless Isabella—delivered the final strike.

She gave him her signature angelic smile, that infuriatingly innocent one, lips curved soft and sweet, her hands clasped neatly behind her back as if she hadn't just shattered his composure into a thousand pieces. She swayed gently from side to side, her skirts catching the faint breeze, as though she were humming to herself.

"Have a good night," she said in the sweetest tone imaginable—so pure, so kind, so gentle—that his chest clenched. And then, without waiting for a reply, she hopped happily off toward her bed.

Cyrus stood there frozen, like some awkward statue carved by a drunk sculptor.

Isabella tucked herself into her bedding with a little bounce, letting the hides fall over her shoulders as she burrowed down. Her lashes lowered, hiding the sparkle in her eyes, and she let out a soft exhale as though sleep had already claimed her.

But Cyrus had known her long enough to realize she was faking it.

Her breaths were a little too measured, the tiniest bit exaggerated, and her lips twitched at the corners like she was desperately trying not to smile. Still, she stayed stubbornly still, pretending she was already half-lost to dreams.

And Cyrus… gods, Cyrus couldn't stop staring.

He willed his racing heart to calm, but it refused. Every second her presence only amplified inside him, filling every quiet corner of his being.

Time ticked by. The fire in the hearth dulled to a soft glow. The night grew heavier, quieter. And Isabella's breathing slowed into something so steady, so gentle, it almost convinced even him that she had drifted off.

Cyrus didn't fight it. He didn't dare disturb her peace. He simply let the silence fill the room.

But for some unfathomable reason, his body still refused to move.

His legs remained rooted to the ground. His hands hung limp at his sides. His chest, however, betrayed him, rising and falling with a quickness that only worsened when his mind replayed her smile over and over again.

It was the reddest his face had ever been in his life. He could feel the burn in his ears, in his neck, even down to his chest. It was so ridiculous that he almost wanted to bury himself under the furs just to hide from himself.

Redder than his snake's tail. That was saying something.

And yet… slowly, gradually, his expression shifted. The wide-eyed shock softened. His lips tugged upward, tentative at first, then stronger, blooming into a smile that belonged to no one but him.

Happiness.

That's what it was. Pure, untainted happiness.

For the first time in his entire existence, Cyrus wanted to dance. Not in the private, ritualistic way of his tribe. No—he wanted to leap, twirl, stomp, spin. He wanted to race to the highest cliff in the world and shout to the heavens until the skies split open: She smiled at me. She chose to smile at me.

Isabella wasn't just beautiful. She wasn't just kind. She was the best—utterly, unshakably the best. The most radiant, infuriating, breathtaking woman he had ever laid eyes on.

And he was in love with her.

The truth slashed through him with terrifying clarity. He was in love with her. And nothing—no tribe, no past, no cursed bloodline—could change that fact.

His gaze drifted back to her sleeping form. Her face was calm now, lips parted in rest, strands of hair falling across her cheek. And something inside him clenched so hard he thought his heart had stopped beating altogether.

It was almost too much. Too much to feel, too much to bear.

He wanted to laugh, to cry, to fall on his knees in thanks.

But before he could unravel completely, something small shifted in his arms.

Glimora stirred, her tiny body wriggling against him.

And just like that, Cyrus snapped out of his daze. His head lowered automatically, his eyes falling on the tiny creature resting in his hold.

Cyrus looked down at the tiny ball of fluff in his arms. Glimora had stirred once, then again, her little legs twitching as if she were still fighting someone in her dreams. A faint squeak left her throat—half growl, half sigh—and it tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"She's just like her," he thought, eyes softening. Stubborn. Restless. Ready to fight the whole world even in her sleep.

With the gentlest of movements, Cyrus adjusted his hold and carried Glimora across the room. The fire's glow brushed against his scaled tail, scattering flickering shadows along the walls. Every step was slow, measured—because for all his strength, for all the raw power coiled inside his beast's form, he would never risk jolting her awake.

He reached her little bedding, the one Isabella had carefully set up—a small nest lined with soft hides and scraps of woven grass. It smelled faintly of lavender leaves Isabella had tucked inside earlier. Cyrus bent down, lowering Glimora into the nest like she was the most precious thing in the world.

Her ears flicked once. Her nose twitched. And then, with a deep sigh of surrender, she curled up tighter and stilled.

Cyrus lingered for a moment, his large hand hovering over her tiny frame as though he wanted to keep guarding her even here. But eventually, he withdrew, straightening his back and releasing the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

His gaze shifted.

And there she was.

Isabella.

She was turned slightly on her side, the hides drawn just under her chin, her lashes fanned out across her cheeks. The faintest smile still lingered at the corner of her lips, as if her dreams were kind. Her hair, perfect as always, spilled across the pillow in golden, silken strands that caught the low glow of the room.

Cyrus's throat tightened.