The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 183: Demon. Abomination. Beast.

Isabella never failed to be amazed.

Every damn time, this man found a new way to destroy her logic. The way he stood there, calm and unbothered, like warming that bowl was the most natural thing in the world—like he wasn’t just hanging onto his strength by threads—drove her insane.

He thought the herb was for her. That’s why he warmed it.

So if he were the one drinking it, he’d have left it cold?

What kind of lunatic did something like that?

Her fingers twitched at her side. A soft exhale left her lips, part disbelief, part frustration—mostly directed at herself. Because of course he’d do that. Of course he’d put her first. He’d put anyone first.

He always did.

This sweet, soft-spoken, maddening idiot would probably trade his soul to save a stranger’s shadow if he thought it might make someone’s day a little brighter. It was insane. It was infuriating. It was... him.

And yet, she still couldn’t reconcile this gentle creature in front of her with the man who had, just minutes ago, said—in a voice colder than death itself—that he’d take someone’s head off without blinking. That memory crawled up her spine like a ghost. It hadn’t been a bluff. She knew it. There was nothing performative in that moment.

If someone had told her—pointed at Cyrus and said, "He threatened to kill someone like it was casual conversation"—she would’ve smacked them over the head with the nearest cooking pan. Hard.

Because that wasn’t him. Not the Cyrus she knew. Not the Cyrus who went around silently trying to help everyone without being noticed. Not the Cyrus who gave her the last of his fruit and claimed he "wasn’t hungry." Not the Cyrus who warmed her water because he thought she needed it.

And that—that—was the problem.

She’d gotten too comfortable.

She’d started forgetting he was still a beast. Still powerful. Still dangerous. He wasn’t just sweet and helpful. He was layered. Complex. Someone capable of immense care and terrifying violence.

The side of him she saw earlier—sharp, dominant, cold—reminded her of the very first time she laid eyes on him in his snake form.

He didn’t look at her like prey. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t still bring destruction. To her. To this village. To everyone she cared about.

She chewed on her bottom lip, watching him. novelbuddy.cσ๓

Cyrus lifted the bowl and drank without hesitation, lips parting as if the herbal mix was ambrosia. His throat moved gently as he swallowed, expression serene. Content. Completely unaware of the storm behind her eyes.

He looked like a man at peace.

And it made her feel worse.

---

Cyrus, meanwhile, was oblivious to her unease. His focus was entirely on the warmth in his hands—and the fact that she’d made this for him.

Isabella had thought of him. She’d remembered his struggle, seen his weakness, and done something about it. That was all that mattered.

She could’ve given him poison, and he would’ve drunk it with a smile if it meant she was thinking of him.

Because he trusted her that much. Because she was the first person since he came to this world who had seen him, not just the power he carried. Not just the serpent. Him.

From the moment they met, she never looked at him like a monster. She never stepped back. She never asked what he could do for her. She just... accepted him. In his worst, most awkward, most dangerous state.

No one else had ever done that.

Before he found her, he’d wandered from tribe to tribe, village to village, mountain to mountain—always met with fear and suspicion. His beast form and pink eyes marked him as cursed. His aura, too strong. His silence, too intimidating. Most places wanted to kill him before he even said a word.

They called him monster. Demon. Abomination. Beast.

And still he refused to beg for their love. Cyrus would never force someone to want him. That was a lesson his old master had beaten into his bones—never take what is given in fear, because it is not real.

He’d rather be hated than loved with pretense.

But then came Isabella.

Bold, loud, always scolding him—but unafraid. When the villagers had turned their backs on him, she had stood in front of them and lied. She’d claimed to be his blood. Not a friend. Not an ally. Blood.

And they believed her.

He had sworn himself to her in that moment—not in words, but in soul.

Without her, he wouldn’t be here. Not in this place. Not with these strange little people who were slowly becoming his home. Not with a warm bowl in his hands and a reason to smile.

And she cared. Even if she didn’t say it the way he wanted. Even if she didn’t know how deeply he wanted her to say more.

He saw it.

He saw it in the way her gaze lingered too long when she thought he wasn’t looking. In the way her hands paused before scolding him. In the way her voice softened when she said his name.

And her scolding? It wasn’t the punishment he’d known all his life. It wasn’t control or cruelty—it was... correction. A reminder to care for himself.

That was what stunned him most.

Because for someone who had spent his life being punished for existing, being gently told to rest... felt like worship.

Isabella was different. Everything about her was different.

The moment Cyrus drained the last drop of the herb mix, he let out a soft exhale, the warmth spreading through his chest like a lazy fire. He lowered the bowl and looked down at Isabella.

That smile again.

Gentle. Grateful. Just a little too quiet.

His pink eyes crinkled at the edges, and for a second, he looked like a man who’d been given the whole world wrapped in one small gesture. His fingers shifted slightly, like he wanted to reach out and touch her—her hair, her hand, anything—but stopped himself.

Isabella raised a brow, grin tugging at her lips despite herself. "What?" she asked, half-scoffing, half-curious. "Don’t look at me like that."

She crossed her arms, but her body leaned toward him without thinking.

"Did it work?"

Cyrus blinked slowly, like he’d just remembered something important. The smile slid from his face. His gaze dropped to the empty bowl in his hands, then flicked to the forest in the distance. The warmth in his expression faded like breath on glass.

He didn’t answer immediately.

His jaw tightened. Muscles in his neck pulled taut as he processed something, something heavy. His brows furrowed in confusion, and then... anger?

"You got this," he said, voice suddenly low, "from this mountain?"

That last word landed hard. His tone wasn’t just displeased—it was dangerous. The soft, content man from moments ago vanished like smoke.

His eyes didn’t hold gratitude anymore. They held warning.