Taming the Beast World with a Frying Pan-Chapter 52: The Snake and the Forbidden Fruit

Ren walked into the scullery, her feet dragging. She felt like she had gone ten rounds with a boxing kangaroo. Her eyes were puffy, her hair was a disaster of red tangles, and the makeshift snake-skin outfit was starting to chafe.

The kitchen was already occupied.

Lyssa sat on the main prep table, swinging her legs. The Coral Snake and the Albino were frantically chopping vegetables, trying to salvage a pot of something that smelled suspiciously like cold sewage.

When Ren entered, Lyssa’s face lit up with malicious glee.

"Look who woke up," Lyssa announced loudly, smoothing her skirt. "You look terrible, Mammal. Did the wood give you splinters?"

Ren ignored her, walking straight to the water basin to splash her face. "Morning, sunshine. Move your ass, you’re sitting on the cutting board."

Lyssa laughed, a high, tinkling sound that grated on Ren’s last nerve.

"You are cranky," Lyssa teased. "I suppose I would be too, sleeping alone in the cold. But I..." She stretched, arching her back like a cat. "...I barely slept at all."

She leaned forward, dropping her voice to a stage whisper that echoed off the stone walls.

"The King was... voracious. He was a true beast last night. It was like he had been starving. He didn’t stop until dawn."

Ren froze, water dripping from her chin. She gripped the edge of the stone basin until her knuckles turned white.

’Don’t listen,’ she told herself. ’She’s trying to get a rise out of you.’

"He was so rough," Lyssa continued, sighing happily. "He usually is gentle, but last night... he needed release. Only a strong female can handle that kind of power. A fragile thing like you would have broken in half."

Ren grabbed a cleaver. She started chopping a tuber with violent, rhythmic strikes.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

"Good for you," Ren said through gritted teeth.

The door swung open.

The room went silent. The harem members scrambled to look busy. Lyssa jumped off the table, pretending to wipe a stain.

Syris entered.

He looked...wrecked.

His midnight hair was messy and falling into his eyes. There were dark circles under his amethyst eyes, and his usually pristine silk sash was tied haphazardly. He looked exhausted. Like a man who hadn’t slept in a week.

Ren’s heart sank. ’He looks tired,’ she thought, a sharp pain piercing her chest. ’Lyssa wasn’t lying. He really was up all night.’

He stopped in the center of the room. He didn’t look at Ren. Not even a flicker. He looked straight at Lyssa.

"My breakfast," Syris rasped, his voice rough. "Is it ready?"

Lyssa stumbled, looking at the pot of cold, raw vegetables with sliced eels. "Uh...King! We were... delayed! The mammal! She slept in! We could not start without the scullery maid!"

Syris’ jaw tightened. He finally turned his head, his gaze sweeping over the kitchen until it landed—briefly, coldly—on Ren.

Ren’s stupid heart skipped a beat. Even exhausted and grumpy, he was devastatingly handsome.

"I didn’t sleep in," Ren defended herself, pointing the cleaver at him. "I was locked in a dungeon. I couldn’t exactly ring for room service to let me out."

She held out her hand.

"And I can’t cook without fire. Give me my lighter back."

Syris looked at her hand. Then he looked at her face. His expression didn’t change. It was a wall of ice.

He turned back to Lyssa.

"Prepare the meal," Syris ordered sharply. "Do not make me wait."

"But the fire—" Ren started.

But he spun on his heel and stormed out of the kitchen.

The moment the heavy wooden door shut behind him, the King’s composure shattered.

Syris stumbled, catching himself against the stone wall. His breathing came in ragged gasps. He clutched the front of his sheer robe, his hand pressing over his racing heart.

Syris reached into his sash and pulled out the lighter. He gripped the silver metal so tight it bit into his palm.

He hadn’t touched Lyssa.

He couldn’t.

Last night, when he had dragged the First Concubine to the Nest, he had intended to forget Ren. He had intended to drown his betrayal in the familiar comfort of his own kind.

But the moment Lyssa had touched him... he had felt sick. Her skin was too slimy. Her scent was wrong. Everything was wrong.

He had kicked her out of the bed within ten minutes. He had spent the rest of the night pacing the room, staring at the empty side of the bed, feeling the phantom weight of Ren’s small body against his.

The withdrawal was lethal. It was worse than the molting fever. It was an ache in his bones, a hollow hunger in his chest that no amount of food could fill.

He missed her. He missed her sharp tongue. He missed her warmth. He missed the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t looking.

He pushed off the wall, his mind drifting back to the darkest hour of the night.

Flashback: 3:00 AM

The dungeon was silent, save for the dripping water.

Syris had moved like a ghost. He had bypassed the sleeping guards, his bare feet making no sound on the stairs. He couldn’t stay away. He needed to see her. Just to make sure she was alive. Just to make sure the cold hadn’t taken her.

He unlocked the cell with a silence born of practice.

Ren was asleep on the wooden bench.

She was curled into a tight ball, buried deep beneath his velvet cloak. Only the top of her messy red head and the tip of her nose were visible. She was shivering slightly, even in sleep.

Syris knelt on the dirty, wet stone floor beside the bench. He stared at her face, illuminated by the faint glow of the bioluminescent moss from the corridor.

She looked so innocent. Without her eyes open to glare at him, she looked soft. Fragile.

"Ren," he mouthed, no sound coming out.

He reached out, his hand trembling slightly. He brushed a stray lock of red hair away from her cheek. His skin grazed hers. She was cold.

His heart broke a little more.

"I love you," Syris whispered into the darkness.

Ren stirred. She let out a low groan, shifting in her sleep. She turned her head, seeking the source of the touch. She nuzzled her cheek into his palm, sighing as she felt his warmth.

Syris froze. He let her use his hand as a pillow, his thumb gently stroking her cheekbone.

He traced the line of her slightly parted lips with his index finger.

"Do you hate me, Little Chef?" he asked the silence.

The question hung in the dank air, heavy and unanswered.

In his heart, he knew the answer. She had stolen from him. She had burned his kin. She had tried to leave him. She must hate him.

He stayed there for hours, kneeling on the stone, holding the woman who had broken his heart. He dozed off, his head resting on the edge of the bench.

When he snapped awake, the first gray light of dawn was filtering through the high grates. Viper would be coming soon.

Syris had pulled his hand away slowly, carefully, so as not to wake her. He had locked the cell and vanished back up the stairs.

The Present

Syris opened his eyes, staring at the silver lighter in his hand.

He wanted her. He wanted to march back into that kitchen, throw her over his shoulder, carry her back to the Nest, and trap her there forever. He wanted to lock the doors and never let her leave.

But he couldn’t.

"She lied," Syris reminded himself, his voice harsh in the empty hallway. "She steals. She burns."

A mate had to be trusted. In the harsh reality of the Beast World, a partner who stabbed you in the back was a death sentence. Lyssa was boring, she was petty, and she was cold... but she was loyal. She had never tried to deceive him.

But Ren...she was the opposite of all of that.

In the old stories, there was a snake and a garden. The snake tempted the woman with a forbidden fruit.

This time, it was the other way around.