The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 517: Bubu, shop. Now.
Isabella blinked at him.
Then blinked again.
Then blinked a third time because her brain refused to process what her ears just heard.
What.
What was he talking about.
Why was he teasing her.
Why was he acting normal.
Why was he being sweet while drenched in monster blood.
Why was he pretending she didn’t hear him scream like the gods themselves were tearing him apart.
Was he insane.
Did something hit his head.
Was he mocking her.
What the hell.
"Osiris," she whispered, voice shaking without her permission, "what happened in there. What is wrong with you."
He did not answer.
Instead he lifted his other hand.
Slowly.
Carefully.
And Isabella sucked in a breath.
"Here," he said softly, "I got your Firemoss for you. I told you that you do not have to get it yourself."
Her eyes dropped to his palm.
They widened instantly.
His hand looked fried.
Burnt.
Charred.
Split open in painful, jagged lines.
The skin was red, black, cracked, glowing faintly with the same fire-veins carved into his arms and chest.
He held the Firemoss so gently, like the pain meant nothing.
Like it was weightless.
Like her safety was worth every burn.
Isabella’s mouth fell open.
Shock crashed over her like cold water.
He did that.
He kept fighting.
He kept going.
He let his hands get destroyed. 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮
For her.
She stared at him.
Completely stunned.
Her brain refused to function for a solid moment. A long one. The kind of blank, frozen silence where a person stops existing for two seconds because reality just punched them directly in the soul.
She blinked once.
Then again.
Then again, slower, her eyelashes sticking faintly from the heat and the sweat on her skin.
Her mind kept trying to reboot.
Because Osiris was standing there with his hand burnt down to something horrifying and yet he was smiling. Actually smiling. Calm. Casual. Like he had not just walked out of a volcanic nightmare covered in the blood of a faceless monster. Like he had not screamed earlier with so much agony it carved itself into her bones.
He held the Firemoss up for her like it was a gift he plucked on a stroll.
A small nod.
A soft look.
A stupid curve of his lips that was somehow gentle and maddening at the same time.
He stood there expecting her to take it.
Like he did not hurt.
Like he was not in unbearable pain.
Like she did not just see the skin on his palm split and char and glow with unnatural lines of fire.
Her throat closed.
Her stomach twisted.
Her heartbeat thudded once so loud she felt it in her ears.
What the heck.
No. Seriously. What the actual heck.
Her breath came out uneven. She swallowed, trying to gather the thoughts scattered all over the floor like broken pottery. His burnt hand trembled slightly, but he did not pull it back. He waited. Patiently. Softly. Like he trusted her to take it. Like this was normal for him.
Her voice wouldn’t come.
Nothing came.
Her confusion wrapped so tight around her chest she almost forgot how to inhale.
This man walked into a fiery death pit, screamed like his soul was being ripped out, crawled out bloody, glowing, and half feral, and somehow came back with a smile like he was handing her flowers.
Her lips parted, but nothing left her mouth.
Instead, instinct took over.
She called her system silently, her voice barely a whisper inside her mind.
"Bubu, shop. Now."
The familiar soft hum answered her immediately. A translucent screen unfolded across her vision. Rows of items flickered into existence. Some she recognized. Some she had never seen. Everything shimmered with that odd, faintly divine look her system always had.
She scrolled frantically with her thoughts, breath trembling.
Glove.
Protection.
Heat resistance.
Something that would let her take whatever this man nearly died retrieving without losing her own hand.
The system identified an item at once.
Fireproof handling glove.
Cost: 50 points.
Guaranteed protection from extreme temperatures.
Suitable for harvesting magical elements.
Perfect.
She purchased it without hesitation. The points deducted with a soft chime inside her head.
Immediately she felt the shift in her inventory space. Her hand slipped into the air beside her as if dipping into invisible water. Her fingertips brushed the glove that materialized within her storage, cool and weightless. She pulled it out.
It shimmered faintly, a deep metallic red. When she slid it onto her hand, the material clung snugly to her skin without discomfort. Almost like it molded itself to her shape.
Osiris watched all this quietly.
Still smiling.
Still pretending his hand was not fried like roasted meat.
Isabella swallowed again, chest tight. She forced herself to lift her hand. Slowly. Carefully. She reached out.
Her gloved fingers brushed the Firemoss.
It didn’t burn.
Didn’t sting.
Didn’t flare.
The glove absorbed everything.
She lifted the glowing vines from his ruined palm with both hands, terrified of accidentally touching his skin. Even looking at his injury made her chest hurt in a way she refused to analyze.
The Firemoss pulsed warmly in her grip. She turned immediately and slipped it into her space, the moss dissolving into her inventory with a soft ripple of light.
Then silence.
Absolute silence.
Her hand remained suspended in the air for a moment before falling slowly to her side. She stared at the empty space where the Firemoss had been, then slowly turned back toward him.
She did not know what to say.
Not a single word.
Her mouth opened, then closed again. Her brows drew together. Her eyes watered from the heat or the shock or the stubborn fear she refused to admit.
Osiris watched her with that soft look.
Soft. Calm. Completely at odds with the blood staining his torso and arms.
He tilted his head slightly.
His smile deepened.
"Ah-ha," he said quietly, as if amused by her silence.
Isabella’s stomach dropped.
That tone.
That smile.
That ridiculous casualness.
She almost hit him in the face.
But before she could even think of a reaction, Osiris’s knees buckled.
He dropped.
Hard.
...
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