The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 499: See? I am great at this

Osiris crouched in front of the pile of dishes like a man preparing for a sacred ritual he absolutely did not sign up for.

The morning lagoon shimmered in soft turquoise light, the surface moving with calm, magical ripples. Not a single leaf dared fall on it. Not a single fish dared disturb it. It was the type of water that made people whisper blessings.

And Osiris was about to dunk dirty pots into it.

Even the water seemed offended.

He exhaled heavily through his nose, lifting the nearest pot — a clay one Isabella had used to cook for him the previous night. It still smelled faintly of herbs, meat, and humiliation.

Behind him, Isabella stood with her arms folded.

Her expression?

A perfect blend of disgust, expectation, irritation, and "I will stab you with a spoon if you annoy me."

Glimora sat right at her feet, fluffy little body upright, watching Osiris with the betrayed judgment of a disappointed toddler.

And far out on the lagoon, the Lunareens — mystical snake-fish-mermaid women — drifted closer like judges arriving at a talent show they didn't want to be at. Their glowing eyes narrowed at the scene.

One muttered, "He returns."

Another: "He attempts cleansing."

The youngest: "He will fail."

They hummed in agreement.

Osiris pretended not to notice them. He had enough enemies today.

He dipped the pot halfway into the lagoon. The water clung to the clay, swirling around it like it was evaluating whether it even wanted to help him.

He tried to scrub the inside with his hand.

Not bad.

Clumsy, but functional.

Isabella watched, unimpressed.

Water dripped down his arm. Osiris shook it off instinctively, flicking droplets everywhere.

A single droplet landed on Isabella's cheek.

She wiped it slowly like a queen wiping away an offense.

"Did you just splash me?" she asked.

Osiris didn't even look back. "It's water. It exists. It moves. I can't control all of it."

"You can control FIRE but you can't control water?"

"I can't control either right now," he said dryly. "So perhaps don't provoke me while I'm holding a pot."

She clicked her tongue. "If you break it, you're making a new one."

"I will simply gather clay."

"GOOD. Do it."

"I wasn't offering."

"Too late. You offered."

He inhaled sharply through his teeth — the universal sign of a man swallowing ten insults at once.

Isabella smirked.

God, she loved bullying him.

The pot was now half-clean.

Which meant: not clean.

But Osiris, with the confidence of a god with zero experience, declared, "There. This one is done."

Isabella lifted a brow. "Osiris."

"What?"

"Do you see the stains inside?"

He squinted. "That is… color."

"It is burnt-on food."

"It is… texture."

"IT IS DIRT."

He paused.

Then shrugged. "I like potatoes."

"That's NOT a potato."

"Well, it once was."

Isabella inhaled deeply.

Glimora thumped her tiny tail on the ground in frustration.

A Lunareen muttered, "He is hopeless."

Osiris, ignoring the choir of judgment, reached for the soap.

He held the clay-based block like it was made of baby glass. He rotated it. Examined it. Sniffed it.

This time, he did NOT lick it — thank the gods.

"Why is it soft?" he asked.

"It's supposed to be soft."

"It reminds me of animal fat."

"Because it IS made of animal fat."

"…why?"

"For CLEANING," she groaned.

He rubbed the soap against the pot.

It made a soft squeaky noise.

Osiris froze.

"…did it just scream?"

"It did NOT scream."

He rubbed again.

Squeak.

He looked at Isabella, wounded. "It is screaming."

"It's SOAP, you prehistoric bird—"

The Lunareens hummed again.

"He annoys her."

"He annoys us."

"He annoys existence."

The youngest added, "He should drown."

Osiris ignored them and continued scrubbing.

The problem was: he scrubbed like a warrior polishing a sword — way too aggressively.

The foam built up quickly, climbing up his forearm.

He sniffed his hand. "…it smells like flowers."

"YES. IT'S HERBAL SOAP."

"I do not want to smell like flowers."

He looked genuinely offended.

"You will smell," Isabella said, "like whatever the soap decides."

"That feels like an attack on my masculinity."

"GOOD."

He glared over his shoulder at her. "You are insufferable."

"You're ugly."

"You literally woke me up to yell at me—"

"You deserved it."

"I was asleep."

"And I was angry."

He muttered something in ancient Phoenix tongue — probably an insult.

Isabella threw him a death glare. "Say that again."

He held the pot up like a shield.

Glimora laughed softly, tiny shoulders shaking.

Slowly, the pot started to look… decent.

Not perfect.

But decent.

Osiris looked at his work with pride.

"See?" he said, smug. "I am great at this."

Isabella: "You missed the entire bottom."

Osiris: "I was saving it for later."

Isabella: "…for what? Dessert?!"

He pursed his lips. "Cleaning requires strategy."

"No," she countered. "Cleaning requires common sense."

He blinked. "Never heard of that."

"I know."

She rubbed her temples.

Osiris, ignoring her breakdown, scrubbed the pot in circles.

Too many circles.

Circles everywhere.

He scrubbed so hard the lagoon water began to foam.

The Lunareens recoiled.

"…disgraceful."

"…chaotic."

"…is he fighting it?"

Osiris exhaled triumphantly. "Done."

Isabella inspected it.

"…fine. Next."

He moved on to a clay bowl.

This one he washed better — still too aggressively, but with less confusion. Foam dripped down his wrists. His hair got wet. Soap smeared his cheek. At one point, he blew bubbles off his arm like they insulted him.

Then came the spoon.

He stared at it silently.

Very silently.

Too silently.

"Osiris?" Isabella asked.

"…this," he said slowly, "is too small."

"Use your fingers."

"It will cut me."

"It's a SPOON."

"It has edges."

"I swear to the gods—"

He sighed, grabbed the little soap piece, and scrubbed the spoon like he was disciplining it.

He rinsed it.

Inspected it.

Nodded like a king approving a peasant.

"Perfect."

Isabella rolled her eyes so hard her vision reset.

Glimora gave him a proud little nod.

The Lunareens collectively hummed, "Barely satisfactory."

Osiris washed the rest — slower now, calmer, more confident, though still fumbling with the soap, still muttering insults under his breath, still too full of pride to ask if he was doing something wrong.

Every time he dropped something, he pretended it was on purpose.

Every time something slipped, he blamed "the water's attitude."

Every time Isabella corrected him, he got more dramatic.

But eventually…

The dishes were clean.

Actually clean.

He placed the last pot on the sand with a triumphant thunk and wiped his hands on his thighs.

Water dripped off his forearms, washing away the last suds.

The lagoon sparkled, magically absorbing the soap residue like nothing ever happened.

Osiris stood up with a proud, stupid, beautiful grin.

"There," he said. "Now the gods may praise me."

Isabella scoffed. "The gods left five minutes ago."

Glimora squeaked with delight, scampering in circles around him.

The Lunareens drifted away again.

One whispered, "She will kill him."

Another replied, "Eventually."

The youngest hummed, "Soon, I hope."

Osiris stretched his back and shook out his wet hair, droplets flying everywhere.

One hit Isabella.

She froze.

He froze.

"…did you just—"

"It wasn't intentional," he said quickly.

"It never is."

"It was water."

"You should fear me."

"I fear nothing."

"You should fear ME."

He blinked.

Then smiled.

That stupid, smug, arrogant smile.

Isabella snapped her mouth shut before she stabbed him with the spoon he just cleaned.

She brushed her dress, straightened her posture, breathed calmly, and announced:

"I am going out to perform a task."

Osiris tilted his head. "…and?"

She pointed at him sharply.

"You are coming with me."

His eyes widened. "Why do I—"

"Because I said so."