The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts
Chapter 262 - 263: He smiled. He smiled! That means he wanted it?!

Chapter 262: Chapter 263: He smiled. He smiled! That means he wanted it?!

Isabella stomped into her hut, her lips pressed so tight together it looked like even her teeth were angry. The rough hide-curtain flapped shut behind her with a flump, and she barely spared it a glance as she stormed inside.

Still cradled in her arms, Glimora gave a soft snore, completely undisturbed by the fiery emotions radiating off her mistress. Isabella gently lowered the small beast onto the thick moss pile she had painstakingly arranged in the coziest corner of the hut. She even took a moment to adjust Glimora’s little leaf-blanket, tucking it under one of her limbs.

"There," Isabella muttered, brushing Glimora’s forehead with the back of her knuckle. "Sleep while I go destroy my back for the sake of soap."

With a deep, overly dramatic sigh, she stood up and took one long look around her hut.

It was small but sturdy. Made of layered bark, dried reeds, woven vines, and roofed with overlapping fur hides. Pockets of clay pots lined one wall, herbs hung upside-down to dry, and a few tools Cyrus had helped her carve out of bone sat abandoned in a wooden tray.

And yet.

And yet.

Here she was, clearly frustrated. Arms crossed. Jaw clenched.

She could’ve just gone to get Luca—he was big, strong, loyal, always willing to help.

But no. Absolutely not.

Because Isabella was an independent woman. An unmated, unguided, emotionally stable, sane, self-sufficient, goddess-level, highly competent genius.

She absolutely, definitely, positively did not need Cyrus or his stupid helpful eyes or his soft voice or his warm hands that knew exactly how to lift things without making it look like the world was ending.

"Hmph. You should hold it like this, not like that," Isabella grumbled to herself in a low, nasally version of Cyrus’ voice. She dramatically rolled her eyes as she squatted beside the giant flat stone slab resting against the wall.

It had taken her two days to find this particular slab. It was supposed to serve as the perfect flat surface to grind ingredients—but first, it had to be moved.

"Not like that, Ilyana," Isabella muttered, her jaw twitching as she mimicked the memory. "No no, hold it like this. Like how you hold my heart, Ilyana. Ugh."

Her hands fumbled for grip. The slab didn’t budge.

"Urgh!" she groaned, adjusting her position and trying again. "Oh Cyrus, you’re so good to me. Can I touch your abs? Your chest? Can I drape myself over you while you explain how to stir dirt into water?"

She yanked again, legs trembling.

"Yes yes you cannnnnnnnn," she mocked, dragging the slab with a pained shriek of effort and sarcasm combined.

And then—miraculously—it moved. With one final scream and one last heave, she managed to slide the cursed slab onto the two wooden logs she’d arranged into a makeshift stand.

She stood there panting, hands on her knees, sweat beading on her brow, hair falling in sticky strands over her forehead, looking at the slab like it had personally insulted her.

She didn’t speak for a while. Just stared.

Then suddenly, she flipped her hair back with the kind of violent elegance that could’ve started a war. She stomped back into the hut like a woman on a mission.

Moments later, the curtain of hide was flung aside again, and out she came—struggling now to carry the giant, lumpy stone cauldron.

It was almost bigger than her. She had to use both hands, her shoulder, her knee, and sheer bitterness to shift it through the entrance.

Her feet shuffled in awkward half-steps as she muttered under her breath.

"Mating? Who’s mating? Nobody. Definitely not me. Some of us are busy building empires and soap and sanity while others are making pottery and memories."

Her cheeks were flushed, her brow furrowed, and every breath was a wheeze.

It was honestly the most dramatic domestic labor the early stone age had ever seen.

Her hair kept falling into her eyes, and she angrily blew it away like it owed her an apology.

She glanced at the grinding slab she had set up. Then at the cauldron. Then back at the slab.

"I hate this," she whispered. "I hate this so much."

But she didn’t stop.

Because she was Isabella.

And gods forbid anyone ever saw her give up.

"But really," Isabella started again, her voice sharp as she yanked her hands off the cursed cauldron like it had offended her entire bloodline. She planted them on her hips and glared at the thing with the weight of a thousand unspoken emotions. "Could he not tell she was practically in love with him?"

She scoffed like the idea alone made her sick, even though her nostrils flared with dramatic offense.

"Oh no, he definitely knew," she continued, pacing the front of her hut like a madwoman on trial. Her arms gestured wildly at the air like it owed her answers. "She confessed! She confessed with her whole chest! And what did he do? He smiled. He smiled! That means he wanted it?!"

She gasped suddenly, her eyes widening in mock horror like the world had just collapsed in front of her. She froze with her mouth open, staring at a tree. "So he wants her?! Is that what it is? Is that where we are now, Cyrus?!"

Her voice cracked somewhere in the middle of that sentence, and she shook it off with another scoff and spun on her heel.

She marched right back to the cauldron and bent over it, fingers splayed against the smooth, cool stone, eyes narrowed like she was about to fight it in hand-to-hand combat.

"But no," she muttered bitterly, "I don’t care, right? I’m just a casual observer. I’m the strong, independent woman. I’m Isabella, goddess of herbs and biting sarcasm. I’m fine."

She squatted, gripped the edge of the cauldron, braced her knees, and—

"Hnnnggggggh—"

It didn’t move.

Not even a whisper of movement. Not even a pity shuffle.

"Okay, okay, maybe I just did it wrong," she whispered, adjusting her grip and this time throwing her entire soul into it.

Her back arched. Her heels dug into the dirt. Her teeth clenched. Her hair fell across her face and stuck to her cheek with sweat. Still—nothing.

"Stupid—useless—stone—overgrown—cooking bowl!"

She finally gave up on lifting it and collapsed to her knees, arms flopping to her sides dramatically. Then, determined not to be defeated by a rock, she began dragging it with both hands, gritting her teeth as it scraped loudly against the earth.

The noise was horrendous. A deep, slow grind like two beasts mating against bark.

"Of course she touches his arm and he smiles like she just made him a crown of stars," Isabella muttered through gritted teeth, still dragging the cauldron an inch at a time. "But me? I ask for help and suddenly it’s ’oh no, let me finish showing Ilyana how to shape mud like a man.’ I will shape his skull if he ever speaks to me again." (Nah she wouldn’t)

She puffed out a breath and kept dragging.

"And i know it might sound like I’m jealous,’" she mocked in a sing-song voice. "But, I’m not jealous. I’m not! I just happen to find it stupid that people don’t know how to mind their slimy paws!"

The cauldron made another angry groan against the dirt as she heaved it an extra inch. She paused, wiped sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand, and glared down at it like it had personally ruined her life.

"I bet Ilyana can’t even spell cauldron. Probably calls it a ’fat bowl’ and still gets rewarded with one of Cyrus’ forehead wrinkles."

She sighed and reached to tug again, her fingers aching.

"You know what I need?" she whispered to herself. "I need a potion that turns annoying men into frogs. Or clay. Or ash."

She gave one more aggressive pull that only shifted the cauldron a single miserable inch.

That’s when she heard it.

A deep, slow, calm voice behind her, like warm honey sliding down bark.

"Let me help you."