The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 128: And how… how exactly do they stay in place?

Chapter 128: Chapter 128: And how... how exactly do they stay in place?

She tried to glare. Really, she did. But her cheeks puffed slightly and her eyes sparkled in the firelight, making her look more like a baby bunny trying to scare off a tiger.

Cyrus, of course, only smiled wider.

"Mmh." A simple nod. A gentle hum. A man clearly too powerful to be fazed by her pretend fury.

Isabella sat up straighter, ready to finally take the soup. Like a normal human.

But the moment her hands reached out, Cyrus beat her to it.

He blew gently on the steaming liquid—once, twice—and brought the bowl to her lips like she was some fragile flower petal about to wilt.

"You shouldn’t stress yourself too much," he said softly. "You’re still recovering."

Isabella’s brows shot up like she just spotted a scandalous affair in the palace gardens.

Ooooooohhh.

She got it now. She finally got it.

This man—this man—was seducing her.

But not with abs or a tragic backstory. No. No, no.

He was seducing her with Innocence.

And the most horrifying part?

It was working.

She had no idea why it was working, and that made it worse. She usually liked the brooding type. You know—emotionally constipated, jawline sharp enough to slice air, the kind of man who says "get on" and throws you on a horse without waiting.

Dominant. Dangerous. A little dramatic. That was the flavor she ordered.

Cyrus?

Cyrus was... not that flavor.

He was the opposite of that. A soft latte in a world of black coffee. Too calm. Too gentle. Too sweet. He looked at her like she was made of sugar and sunshine, and it made her insides feel like a jazz band had started playing inside her chest.

It was concerning. Deeply.

She eyed him suspiciously, hoping—praying—he was faking it. That somewhere beneath that kind expression was a manipulative villain monologuing about his true intentions.

Because at least then she’d have something solid to hate. Or resist.

But no. No secret smirk. No evil glint. Just warm eyes and soup.

Honestly, if he had a flaw, she’d be able to breathe again. But he didn’t. He looked like someone who rescues kittens for fun and remembers birthdays.

And that? That was a problem. A serious one.

Cyrus nudged the spoon gently toward her lips again, and before she knew it, her mouth opened like some sort of obedient Victorian doll.

She blinked.

The soup touched her tongue.

Her eyes snapped open.

AYOOO THIS MAN—

What kind of wizardry was this? Who gave him permission to make soup that tasted like divine comfort, childhood nostalgia, and five-star chef-level seasoning all in one?

She didn’t recall teaching him that. He’d clearly leveled up behind her back. This was no basic broth.

Honestly, in her past life, half the soups she paid money for at those overpriced restaurants? Tasted like disappointment and tap water.

And her own cooking? Pfft. She’d be lucky if she didn’t set the pot on fire.

Please. Please, whoever was listening up there—don’t let Bubu assign her a random cooking task any time soon. She could feel it coming like a bad plot twist.

But all those worries vanished the moment Cyrus brought the spoon to her lips again.

She didn’t even hesitate. Just opened her mouth like a well-trained Disney princess with food privileges.

Spoon. Sip. Bliss.

Repeat.

She was finally getting full when suddenly—

Warmth.

A soft heat bloomed between her legs.

Her brain, noble and stubborn, tried to ignore it at first.

Nope. Not happening. False alarm. Maybe it’s the soup?

But the heat lingered.

Her eyes slowly widened, and she stiffened.

She turned her head.

Cyrus—sweet, innocent, terrifyingly perfect Cyrus—had gone bright red.

No. No, no, no, no, no, no—

Could he smell it?

IS THAT WHAT THIS WAS?!

Isabella froze like a squirrel caught mid-crime.

He didn’t say a word. He just gently stirred the soup like nothing happened.

But the red in his cheeks? It was very much happening.

Isabella inhaled sharply and gripped the blanket over her legs like it was her last defense.

Oh lord, she thought. Please smite me. Or him. Or both. Honestly, I’m not picky.

Even Glimora seemed to know. The little furball curled up even closer between Isabella’s thighs like a smug, purring heating pad sent by the goddess of cramps herself.

Isabella’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. "No. No no no. What have I done in my past life to deserve this?" she whispered to no one, clutching her fur blanket like it could reverse fate. freёweɓnovel.com

Then came Ophelia’s voice, far too casual: "Ah, should I get you some cloth rags?"

Isabella’s head snapped toward her, offended. Ophelia had been half-asleep leaning on the wall—how did she know?! Why did everyone but her have these magical period-detection powers? Was this some secret village skill she hadn’t unlocked?

"What is that?" Isabella asked, voice tight, defensive, and already annoyed by the answer she was sure she wouldn’t like.

Ophelia, ever the helpful cute-chubby ball, perked up. "Oh! It’s fabric woven from plant fibers or beast fur. Very soft! And it’s reusable too!"

Reusable?

Isabella’s soul left her body.

"And how... how exactly do they stay in place?" Her voice dropped low like a noble queen preparing to deliver a royal roast.

"They’re secured with thin vine ties," Ophelia said sweetly, completely missing the horror growing on Isabella’s face, "or sometimes we tuck them into high-waist wraps. It’s really secure!"

Isabella’s left eye twitched. In her head, she renamed them primitive boyshorts with nature’s pockets. Cute. Absolutely not.

"Should I get them for you?" Ophelia offered, already halfway up.

"Um—no. Please." Isabella held up a hand like a diva casting a rejection spell. She glanced between Cyrus and Ophelia, unsure how to say, leave me alone for a moment so I can die in peace.

Wait. What was she hesitating for? This was her room. She could kick them both out if she wanted. She was the injured one! The bleeding one! The—

Just then, hurried footsteps sounded outside. Voices rose, loud and frantic.

Isabella’s brows furrowed.

"I’ll go check," Ophelia said, brushing dust from her hide skirt as she gracefully pushed aside the curtain and stepped out.