The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 182: I thought you wanted it warm

She turned to Cyrus, grabbing his arm and pulling like a nosy little sister demanding answers. "What was that? Did you see her face? That sound she made? What did she do? Who made her weird? Tell me!"

Cyrus turned toward her with his usual tiny smile—soft, almost serene.

Isabella squinted. "Why are you smiling like that? You literally just threatened to decapitate someone."

He didn’t answer right away. Just blinked, then said calmly, "She’s under black magic."

Isabella stepped back like he’d slapped her with a chicken.

"Excuse me?! You don’t just drop that like it’s weather news!"

She pointed a dramatic finger at his face. "And wipe that peaceful smile off! You look like you’re about to sing a lullaby, not drop creepy curses into my life!"

Cyrus tilted his head slightly, the corners of his mouth still faintly curved. His version of a shrug.

"You said it like it’s normal!"

"It is," he murmured.

Isabella gaped. "She growled! I’m not making that up, right? She actually growled—like a monster! And you’re just... standing here. With that smile."

Cyrus glanced down the corridor where Zara had disappeared, then looked back at her. "She’s dangerous."

That was it. No follow-up. No dramatic monologue. Just that.

Isabella stared. "I feel like I’m in a horror story. And you’re the deceptively gentle one who always turns out to be the most terrifying."

He blinked again, calm as ever.

"Why do you look like you’d offer someone tea after stabbing them?" she muttered under her breath.

No response.

She threw her hands in the air. "Great. So we’re just casually living with cursed people now?"

Cyrus looked at her, then offered the tiniest nod toward the hallway. "Come. You’ll catch a cold."

She stared at him, jaw slack. "That’s your follow-up?!"

Still no response. Just that gentle, patient presence beside her.

Isabella groaned as she stomped after him. "You are the scariest calm person I’ve ever met."

Cyrus glanced back once.

Still smiling.

When they stepped into the dim, cool chamber where Isabella had been staying, the flickering glow of the fire pit on the far wall cast long shadows on the stone. A few furs were spread out neatly by the hearth, and beside them, nestled in the corner of her sleeping mat, lay Ophelia and Glimora—both curled up into tiny balls, soft breaths rising and falling in sync.

Isabella’s face softened.

Ophelia was pressed into her pillow, twitching slightly in her sleep like she was dreaming of running. Meanwhile, Glimora, the round little creature with spindly ears and silver-tipped fur, was perched directly on top of Ophelia’s head like it was her rightful throne.

Isabella chuckled under her breath. "What is it with you and heads?"

As if hearing her voice from a dream, Glimora blinked open her tiny blue eyes, let out a squeaky trill, then buried her face deeper into Ophelia’s wild curls and went back to sleep like nothing had happened.

Isabella smiled again, fondness in her chest, before turning back to the taller figure standing behind her.

She moved to the shelf carved into the room wall, picked up a shallow stone bowl, and knelt by the low stone slab. From the folds of her hide dress, she slipped out a dried piece of the Kalahari herb—the one she’d swiped from her space earlier when Cyrus wasn’t paying attention. She crumbled the silver-leafed plant into the bowl and poured in cold spring water from a gourd, watching the pale fragments swirl and dissolve like smoke.

Behind her, Cyrus finally spoke. "What is that?"

His tone was steady as always—gentle, quiet—but there was something watchful in his stance. He stood just far enough not to intrude, but close enough that she could feel the weight of his presence behind her.

Isabella didn’t look up right away. "It boosts strength," she said, a small smile flickering on her lips.

A partial truth. But if she told him the full story—that it was meant for regeneration, for healing broken things, for coaxing dormant power back to life—he’d probably refuse to take it. Because that was what Cyrus did. Always giving, never asking.

She stirred the mixture with her finger, watching the water tint pale blue. "Would’ve been nice to warm it up," she muttered absently, brows pinching together as she tried to think.

Then she huffed and shrugged. "Meh, it’ll work either way—"

She stopped mid-sentence. Her brows lifted. The water was warm. Actually warm.

Her eyes snapped up to him, narrowed and accusatory. "Did I ask you to warm it?"

Cyrus looked... mildly apologetic. He glanced at the bowl, then back at her with the expression of someone who knew he was caught. His shoulders didn’t move, but there was a flicker of guilt in his eyes.

"I thought you wanted it warm," he said softly.

Isabella sighed—loud and full of judgment. She crossed her arms, one hip jutting out. "It’s not for me, Cyrus."

She looked him over then, really looked. His skin was a shade paler than usual, the shadows under his eyes deeper. His breathing was quiet, but tight. He looked like a bird trying not to show it had a broken wing.

She was helping him. She was trying to help. And here he was, secretly using his power to warm water instead of letting himself recover.

"I’ll turn the temperature back to normal," he said calmly, raising his hand like it was no big deal.

"Don’t," she said quickly, holding up a finger like a teacher scolding a stubborn student. "Just drink. It’s for you."

She pushed the bowl toward him and watched as he stepped closer.

He knelt beside her with that quiet grace he always moved with, his frame casting a shadow over her legs. As he reached out to take the bowl, his fingers brushed hers—just a second, maybe even less. But it was deliberate. Delicate. Like he was collecting a memory.

He smiled. A tiny one. Almost too soft to notice.