The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 549: If she does not want you, what makes you think she will want your offspring too
At The Village
Cyrus’ hands were trembling again.
Not from fear.
Not from anger.
From exhaustion.
He sat in the center of the half-built wooden structure, carving smooth curves into what would become a cradle. A cradle he imagined Isabella touching with her soft hands. A cradle he imagined her staring at with quiet awe. A cradle he hoped would make her smile, even for a heartbeat, even if she hated him now.
His fingers dragged along the edge of the wood. He lifted it gently to inspect his work. The shape was perfect, but his hands... his hands looked nothing like the hands he used to have. There were faint blue veins glowing beneath his skin. His complexion had faded like moonlight, pale and thin. His eyelids drooped.
He had not slept properly in days.
Weeks, actually.
Because every night, his spiritual energy slipped out of him, flowing across the miles, across the forest, across the dangerous mountain range, and into the necklace around Isabella’s neck. He poured himself into it willingly, silently protecting her from the worst of the dark creatures. He felt every ripple in her emotions, every dip in her health, every moment she was startled, scared, or exhausted.
And he still loved her in every single one of those moments.
He took a slow breath and rubbed his fingers across his forehead. The dizziness got worse every day. His muscles felt weaker. Even his mind felt quieter, like he was drifting into a fog.
Still, he kept carving.
Still, he hoped.
Still, he prayed she would come back safe.
Not for him.
Never for him.
But because he could not imagine a world without her.
Across the village, Ophelia stood near the fire pit, watching him with tears in her soft doe eyes. Her round, chubby cheeks puffed as she worried. Her little hands wrung together.
"Cyrus, you should rest, please," she whispered gently, stepping toward him. Her voice was as soft as cotton. "Come eat something. Please."
But Cyrus only smiled, gentle as always.
"I will eat later, Ophelia. I only need to finish this piece first."
She opened her mouth again, but someone else beat her to it.
A heavy shadow fell over them.
A loud sigh followed.
Zyran.
The black panther strolled in with his arms folded behind his head, looking like the most annoying man in the entire world. His smirk was permanent, like it had been carved into his skull.
"Well well," Zyran said loudly. "Look at you, Cyrus. Pale. Weak. Miserable. Perfect. Absolutely perfect."
Ophelia puffed up angrily. "Zyran, stop that right now."
"I am simply expressing my grief." Zyran placed a hand on his chest dramatically. "My wife is away. I miss her so much that my heart aches. But what do I see here? A man who looks like he sold his soul to a swamp frog. Are we sure Isabella is even coming back, Cyrus? Or did you drag her somewhere else and pretend she will return?"
"Zyran," Ophelia snapped again, stomping her foot. "Leave him alone."
Zyran ignored her entirely.
Cyrus continued carving as if he did not hear a thing. Weeks of dealing with Zyran had taught him that reacting only made the panther worse.
Zyran stepped closer.
"Come on, Cyrus. At least tell us if she is coming back. Or has she already chosen someone better. Maybe someone tall. Handsome. Smart. Strong. Someone like... well, me."
Ophelia gagged. "Ew."
Valen, who had been standing behind her quietly, grunted in agreement. He placed a protective hand on Ophelia’s shoulder and pulled her against him. His eyes narrowed at Zyran.
"You are stressing her," Valen warned. "Leave."
Zyran shrugged. "I am stressing her? I thought that was Cyrus’ job."
He leaned even closer and jabbed a finger toward Cyrus’ face.
"Look at him. Why does he look like he is dying. Did Isabella drain him before she left. Did she finally get tired of his quiet priest attitude."
Ophelia gasped. "Zyran, stop it. Cyrus is doing his best. Isabella is probably fine."
"Probably," Zyran echoed. "Unless Cyrus lied and she is gone gone. Maybe eaten by a mountain lion. Hard to say."
Ophelia looked close to tears. "Zyran. Stop. Please."
Valen wrapped an arm around her waist. "Ophelia, ignore him. He has nothing inside his skull except dust and stupidity."
Zyran raised a brow. "Dust is generous. I prefer chaos."
Cyrus finally exhaled slowly.
"She is fine," he said quietly. His voice was rough, soft, weak. "She is safe. I will leave the moment she comes back. That is what she asked of me."
Ophelia’s eyes trembled. "She told you that..."
Zyran smirked victoriously. "See. I told you all. Cyrus is leaving. Isabella does not want him."
Ophelia held her hands near her chest. "Then... then is that why she looked so sad when she left..."
Valen frowned deeply. "Ophelia, do not think too hard about it. Isabella will explain when she returns."
Zyran leaned in again, enjoying every moment of this drama.
"Since you are leaving soon, Cyrus, why wait. Go now. You look like you will collapse any moment. You should leave before she arrives. It will save her the trouble."
Ophelia gasped again. "Zyran, that is too much. Apologize."
"I am not being mean," Zyran argued lazily. "I am being honest. Cyrus looks like he crawled out of a grave."
Cyrus’ hands finally stilled.
His blade stopped carving.
He lifted his head.
He stared at Zyran slowly.
That stare was cold.
Very cold.
The kind of cold that came from a man who felt pain too deep to speak about.
"I would never let harm come to the mother of my children," Cyrus said quietly.
Silence.
The entire village froze.
Ophelia’s mouth fell open.
Valen blinked.
Even the wind paused.
Zyran’s eyes widened for half a heartbeat before narrowing like a cat spotting something shiny.
"So it is true," Zyran murmured slowly. "She is pregnant. Good. Very good. Now it makes sense why you are still lurking around here."
Cyrus lowered his head, ready to return to his carving, but Zyran was not finished.
He stepped closer, leaned down and whispered loudly enough for the entire village to hear.
"And so what if she is pregnant. If she does not want you, what makes you think she will want your offspring too."
Cyrus froze.
Every muscle in his body turned to stone.
His breath stilled in his chest.
His eyes slowly lifted, and for the first time in weeks, something dangerous flickered through them.
Something sharp.
Something powerful.
Something ancient.
Zyran felt a chill dance up his spine.
Cyrus rose slowly to his feet, calm as a quiet night before a storm.
His shadow stretched across the dirt.
And Ophelia whispered nervously, "Oh... no..."
Because Zyran had finally crossed the line.
