The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 555: You are safe. Nothing will hurt you

Chapter 555: Chapter 555: You are safe. Nothing will hurt you

Isabella slept hard.

The medicine worked fast, soothing the ache in her bones and clearing the tightness in her chest. Her blankets were warm, Glimora was curled at her stomach, and the night breeze outside the tent hummed softly. The lagoon shimmered quietly under the moonlight, like a gigantic silver plate resting gently on the world.

Everything should have been peaceful.

Everything should have been calm.

But Isabella’s mind had other plans.

Her dream began gently.

She was holding a tiny baby in her arms. A soft, warm, adorable baby with scales just faintly shimmering under the sunlight. The baby had chubby cheeks and a little forked tongue that peeked out when he laughed. His eyes were bright, round, and curious.

Another baby tugged at her clothes. A girl with silky black hair and faint translucent scales along her spine. She giggled and lifted her little arms, demanding to be picked up.

Isabella felt joy bloom inside her chest.

Her babies.

Her precious babies.

Her heart swelled with pride as she held them both, laughing as more tiny forms crawled into her lap, wrapping themselves around her like soft, warm vines.

Four of them.

Three boys, one girl.

All snake babies, tiny tails curling around her wrists, her waist, her hair. They smelled like milk and sunlight. They made soft chirping noises that made her heart squeeze with tenderness.

She was happy.

She was whole.

She was complete.

Her children climbed over her, tugging her hair, pressing their faces to her cheeks, giggling and babbling. Their little scales were cool and smooth, and each tiny heartbeat against her skin felt like a promise.

A promise she wanted to keep.

Until one of them slipped.

The little boy with bright amber eyes stumbled, toppled, and fell onto the soft ground. His little chin trembled, and then his mouth opened in a heartbreaking wail.

"Papa."

Isabella froze.

Her smile vanished instantly.

The word echoed inside her skull like a stone dropped into deep water.

Papa.

But... they did not have a father. They had her. Only her. She raised them. She kept them safe. She loved them enough for two.

Another child tugged at her clothes, looking up with tearful eyes.

"Where is Papa. Why is Papa not here."

Isabella felt something sharp sink into her chest.

Her children began crying again. Louder. More desperate. Their tiny hands reached for the horizon as if someone was supposed to emerge from it.

"Where is Papa. Where is Papa. Where is Papa."

The sound stabbed her heart over and over. Her throat tightened. She could not breathe. Her vision blurred. Her hands trembled violently as she tried to gather them close.

"I... I do not know," she whispered. "I... I do not know where he is."

Her babies sobbed harder.

And something inside Isabella snapped.

"Cyrus," she whispered. "Cyrus..."

The name echoed inside the dream, pulling at the edges of her heart.

She saw his smile.

His gentle eyes.

His soft hands touching her hair.

His trembling voice when he told her he loved her.

His pain when she walked away.

She started shaking.

"I did not mean what I said," she whispered, voice cracking. "I am sorry. I did not mean it. I was scared. Cyrus, please..."

Her babies cried louder.

"Papa... Cyrus..."

"No," she whispered desperately, clutching them closer. "Do not cry. I am here. Mama is here."

But they were looking for him.

And the more they cried, the more her heart felt like it was tearing open.

"Cyrus, I am sorry," she sobbed. "I am sorry. Come back. I am scared. I cannot do this alone. I cannot..."

IN REALITY

Isabella was crying.

Her entire body was shaking under the blanket. Her breath hitched. Her fingers curled tightly into the sheets. She whimpered softly, brokenly, like someone in true pain.

Her face was wet with tears.

Her lips trembled as she whispered the same name again and again.

"Cyrus. Cyrus. I am sorry. Cyrus... please..."

Her voice cracked on the last word.

In the quiet tent, the sound was soft but sharp enough to cut through the night air.

Osiris had not gone far. He slept near the tent flap, mostly because Isabella told him to sleep far away, but also because he... did not like being too far from her. Especially when she was sick.

So when the first small sob escaped her lips, his eyes snapped open.

He sat up immediately.

When the second sob came, louder, filled with pain, his heart squeezed painfully.

When she whispered that name, his jaw clenched.

He did not understand the name.

He did not know who Cyrus was.

He only knew that Isabella was hurting.

And he hated it.

He moved without thinking.

He pushed open her tent and stepped inside, ignoring every threat she ever made about murdering him if he entered. None of it mattered now.

What mattered was the way she curled into herself like she was trying not to break apart. What mattered was the tremble in her hands. What mattered was the pain in her tiny voice.

Something twisted fiercely inside him.

Possessive.

Protective.

Dangerous.

He crossed the space quickly and knelt beside her, touching her shoulder with unusual gentleness.

"Isabella," he whispered. "Wake up. You are dreaming."

But she did not wake.

She only sobbed harder and whispered again.

"Cyrus... please..."

Osiris felt something black and hot surge in his chest.

He did not like the name.

He did not like that it made her cry.

He did not like that it had this kind of power over her.

He leaned down and gathered her into his arms.

She felt so small.

So fragile.

So cold.

Her head rested against his chest as he held her tightly.

"It is okay," he murmured without knowing what else to say. "You are safe. Nothing will hurt you."

His voice was soft. Softer than he had ever used. His hand stroked her back awkwardly, unsure, but desperate to calm her.

He whispered again. "You are safe. I am here. You are not alone."

Slowly, the tremors in her body eased.

Her breathing softened.

Her tears slowed.

But she was still lost in the dream, still drifting between fear and exhaustion.

Her eyes fluttered open for a brief moment.

Red, puffy, glassy with tears.

She stared up at him through her messy lashes.

And she whispered in a cracked voice:

"You are not Cyrus."

Then she slumped weakly against him and drifted back to sleep.

Osiris froze.

The words echoed inside his skull.

You are not Cyrus.

Who is Cyrus.

Why did the name make her cry like she was breaking.

Why did she say it with so much pain.

He stared at her sleeping face for a long moment, studying the wet eyelashes sticking together, the small crease between her brows, the soft tremble in her lips.

He did not understand anything.

But he understood one thing.

He did not like the way that name made him feel.

Not even a little.

He gently lowered her onto the bed and covered her with the blanket. Then he stood, quietly, silently.

He stepped outside the tent before she woke, the question burning in his mind.

Who is Cyrus.