The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts
Chapter 261 - 262: You can find me when you’re done being a teacher

Chapter 261: Chapter 262: You can find me when you’re done being a teacher

"Oh yes, you’re right! Cyrus is actually teaching me how to make a pot. You know... those things you use for cooking," Ilyana said, beaming, utterly clueless that she had just stepped into the middle of a silent emotional battlefield.

Isabella’s jaw twitched.

Not because she was angry.

No.

She was perfectly fine. She was doing great.

She just happened to flick her teeth with her tongue in a totally harmless, not-at-all passive-aggressive motion as her gaze zeroed in on Ilyana’s dainty hand sliding up Cyrus’ arm like it belonged there.

And there it was—Cyrus’ arm. Warm, pale, defined, being touched by someone who wasn’t her.

Isabella’s face was blank.

Absolutely. Blank.

Like she was watching a squirrel perform a backflip and trying not to react. "Wow, Cyrus," she said, turning to face him with the slow, icy grace of someone who was about to slap a man with a fish. "I never knew you were a teacher too."

Her voice was sweet.

Too sweet.

Cyrus immediately detached his arm from Ilyana like it had caught fire. "I—" he began, turning his full attention to Isabella as if she were the only one who had ever mattered.

Ilyana blinked, confused at the sudden rejection, and let her hand fall back to her side with a pout.

"I’ll help you set things up," Cyrus offered, his voice soft and earnest like always, stepping away from the half-formed clay and the woman beside him.

But Ilyana, who had not yet caught on to the shift in temperature, spoke again.

"But Cyrus," she said, her tone far too fragile for Isabella’s taste, "we’re not done yet."

"Yeah, Cyrus," Isabella said, her gaze sharpening as she flipped her hair over her shoulder with entirely too much flair for someone who supposedly didn’t care. "You’re not done yet, are you?"

The weight of her tone made even the birds in the trees go quiet.

Cyrus hesitated, caught in the middle, like a fox stuck between two rivers—one cold, one made of fire. "It can wait," he said finally. "The shampoo—"

"It’s okay," Isabella cut him off, eyes sliding past him, pretending she wasn’t bothered. "Finish up with Ilyana. It’s rude to leave a woman waiting."

Her voice cracked just the tiniest bit on woman, and she hated herself for it.

"But—" he tried again, stepping toward her, trying to fix whatever invisible wound had just opened.

"Gosh, I said it’s okay already!" Isabella snapped, too loudly now, brushing her hair behind her ear so hard she nearly took the ear with it. "It’s rude to leave her midway, and I know you’re not the rude type. Are you?"

The silence that followed was loud.

Cyrus’ eyes dropped. His shoulders sagged. A storm of confusion and something darker—hurt—moved across his face like clouds.

"Mmh," was all he said.

As usual.

The one sound he made when he didn’t know what to say but had too many feelings to keep inside.

And Isabella immediately wanted to punch herself in the throat.

Because the second he looked like that—like she’d just stepped on his spirit—it didn’t feel good at all. In fact, it felt terrible. She wanted to scream. Or run. Or grab his hand—yes, that same hand Ilyana was holding like it was hers—drag him away, sit him down, and braid his hair herself until he forgot every woman that wasn’t named Isabella.

To be honest, she really had no idea why she was reacting like this.

Okay, fine. Maybe she did know.

It’s not like she owned Cyrus. He was allowed to live his life.

Do what he wanted.

Laugh with whoever.

Let them touch him.

Touch his arm, his hair, his face, his soul—fine.

Okay, no. Not fine.

Because—

Wait.

Actually, she did own him.

She took him in. That counted for something.

Right?

But still... not in that way. She didn’t own him in that way. So he was allowed to be touched. Be smiled at. Be fed clay by hand if he wanted to.

She didn’t care.

At all.

Not even a little.

Not even—

She looked over and saw Ilyana giggling again and nearly crushed Glimora in her arms.

Sure.

She didn’t care.

She had way more important things to do.

Like making a damn shampoo.

For a damn village.

For a bunch of damn hairy people who didn’t even say thank you.

She didn’t care about Cyrus’ long lashes or how he always listened or how his smile made her toes do backflips.

She was fine.

Completely.

Absolutely.

Totally.

Fine.

Cyrus stood there like a carved stone statue, only the slow, aching blink of his eyes betraying that he was, in fact, still human.

"You can find me when you’re done being a teacher," Isabella said—sweet as berries but with thorns hidden in every syllable. Then she turned on her heel with the kind of elegance only a woman who knew she’d just dropped emotional dynamite could manage, her fur wrap swaying, Glimora still fast asleep in her arms, unaware of the silent war she was being carried away from.

The sound of her footsteps on the dirt was too loud in the sudden quiet.

Cyrus’ hands twitched at his sides. Not because he was angry. No. That wasn’t it.

They twitched because they wanted to reach out. To stop her. To pull her back. To say—Wait. Don’t go. I didn’t mean to upset you. I didn’t want her to touch me. I didn’t know how to say no in front of her because I thought it would be rude but I didn’t want her. I only—

He swallowed hard.

He only ever wanted to help Isabella.

That was the whole reason he’d agreed to show Ilyana how to make the pot in the first place. Because he thought it’d be quick, something simple before he could go find Isabella again. She always had something interesting brewing—some clever idea or wild invention—and she needed someone to help carry water or lift heavy stones. And he didn’t mind. He liked helping her. He loved helping her.

Because when Isabella needed him, it made him feel... seen.

Wanted.

Important.

And now?

Now she had walked away like he didn’t matter. Like he had failed some unspoken test.

And that—that—hurt in a way Cyrus wasn’t used to. Not like a cut or bruise. No, this was the kind of pain that crawled into your chest and sat there, making itself at home, making everything else feel smaller, quieter, colder.

He stared at her back as she grew smaller in the distance. His jaw clenched.

He had disappointed her.

He didn’t know how, but he had.

And the worst part?

He hadn’t meant to.

The worst part was that he would have dropped everything—the clay, the lesson, the entire tribe—just to follow her if she had let him.

But she hadn’t.

And now he was just standing there, hollowed out like a half-finished pot, air-dried and fragile.

Beside him, Ilyana shifted awkwardly.

She had noticed.

How he hadn’t looked at her once since Isabella arrived.

How he had flinched at her touch.

How his eyes had followed Isabella like she carried the sun in her spine.

And Ilyana, though not cruel, had also noticed the sharp little twist in her chest. She had liked Cyrus since she got to know him. Everyone liked Cyrus. Because he was kind. Because he smiled at you like you mattered.

But he had never looked at her the way he looked at Isabella. And now that look was gone too.

"What’s... a shampoo?" Ilyana asked gently, her voice soft, trying to bring him back to the present.

And just like that, the echo of Isabella’s retreating footsteps vanished, and Cyrus blinked. Once. Twice. Like waking from a dream.