The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 148: And dear Shelia... it’s time I paid you a visit

Chapter 148: Chapter 148: And dear Shelia... it’s time I paid you a visit

Kian obviously did not like something about Garan’s words.

The king’s shoulders barely shifted, but a heavy stillness spread across the room. The kind that made the air feel thicker, harder to breathe. Kian didn’t speak, didn’t twitch, but his eyes—those quiet, guarded eyes—darkened.

They locked onto Garan with an intensity that cut past skin.

It was subtle.

But it was lethal.

And though Garan outranked Kian politically—his name carried weight in more regions than this one—the chill that slid down his spine was undeniable. His body didn’t move, but every hair on his arm rose as if some primal instinct had just whispered: danger.

He fought the urge to clear his throat.

Still, his lips remained curled in that infuriating, ever-present smile. He tilted his head slightly, as if amused, watching Kian’s cold gaze shift away at last. Only then did Garan allow himself to breathe a little easier.

But the warning had landed.

Loud and clear.

Euphim, by contrast, looked completely unmoved. The man from the Bamboo line was more statuesque than expressive—his features firm, posture controlled, eyes distant. Whatever silent exchange had passed between the other two men, he didn’t acknowledge it.

He simply rose from the hide-wrapped log he had been seated on, adjusted the thick cloth draped over one shoulder, and moved to follow without a single word.

The rustle of fur curtains and the soft thuds of their footfalls echoed faintly in the massive stone hall as the trio made their way out. Hide-draped walls let narrow rays of sunlight slant through the seams, illuminating motes of dust drifting like lazy spirits in the air. The scent of sun-dried wood, sweat, and old smoke clung to the room like a second skin.

Zara stood rooted to the floor, her limbs unmoving.

She stared after Kian, unable to believe what she was seeing.

He hadn’t even asked her to come along.

Not a glance.

Not a word.

Not even a flicker of awareness that she was still standing there beside him.

Her chest rose and fell slowly, fingers curled into the folds of her hide dress. She had always stood at his side—always been the one he looked to, even if only out of habit or obligation. In the past, he always asked. Even if she refused. Even if she was cold to him.

He asked.

But now... nothing.

The silence of it cut deeper than any insult.

Her lips parted slightly as a bitter heat pooled at the back of her throat. The sting of rejection curled through her veins like poison.

Isabella.

That girl. That cursed little outsider with her soft face and mysterious ways. She had infected him somehow, twisted the king’s focus like ivy wrapping around stone.

Zara’s fists clenched at her sides as she stared at the empty space where Kian had stood just seconds ago. Her nails bit into her palms.

No.

No, she wasn’t going to let this continue.

That girl had already been a thorn in her skin, but now she was taking things. Zara could feel the shift. The way the men in the palace spoke about her. The murmurs. The way he moved every time her name was brought up. It wasn’t normal.

It wasn’t right.

"Isabella," she muttered under her breath, her voice low and seething as her gaze turned icy, "I’ll be the end of you."

Her tone, barely audible, still cut like broken glass—soft but venom-laced, a vow whispered in the throne room’s stillness.

And for a moment, the fur curtains trembled as a gust of hot wind swept through.

As if the room itself shivered at her words.

"And dear Shelia... it’s time I paid you a visit," Zara muttered, scowling to herself as she rose to her feet.

...

Cyrus stood still, towering above Isabella like a statue carved from quiet strength, his gaze fixed on her with subtle intensity. The soft clink of his hide fabric barely sounded as he shifted his weight, but his eyes were locked on the small, tired figure beside him.

She was swaying ever so slightly.

From foot to foot.

Trying to keep the blood moving in her legs.

The way she did it silently—no complaints, no sighs, no visible frustration—made his chest tighten in a way he hated. It wasn’t just sympathy. It was worse. It was helplessness.

She shouldn’t have to stand like this. Not when he was right here.

"Are your legs tired?" Cyrus asked quietly, his voice gentle as his head dipped slightly to meet her line of sight.

Isabella blinked out of her thoughts. Her eyes flicked upward, and—wow. Yeah, she forgot sometimes how insanely tall this man was. His shadow practically swallowed her.

She let out a low breath.

"Mmh... very. And hungry too," she admitted with zero hesitation, stretching her back slightly. Her tone wasn’t whiny, just honest, like she’d long passed the point of pretending she was fine.

Cyrus’s brow furrowed faintly, and his fingers twitched as though resisting the urge to scoop her up right then and there.

Isabella, for her part, no longer felt that deep weakness that had clung to her like a second skin all morning. The sickness had ebbed. Maybe because she’d leveled up—gaining points always seemed to leave her body humming with restored energy.

But hunger? Oh yeah, that was real.

So was thirst.

And if Cyrus and Ophelia weren’t literally glued to her side like affectionate bodyguards, she would have already sneakily pulled the Infinite Water Pouch out of her spatial inventory. Only problem?

She didn’t even know what it looked like yet.

All she knew was: her hand would know what to do when the moment came. All she needed was ten seconds—just a little distraction and boom. Her fingers would handle the rest.

"Meee too," Ophelia mumbled with a little groan, rubbing her round belly as she looked up at Isabella with pleading eyes.

Isabella smiled gently, her heart warming at the sight of Ophelia’s little pout. She looked so precious when she was upset—like a chubby flower petal wilting under the sun.

Cyrus followed Isabella’s gaze as it drifted upward to the trees lining the edge of the clearing.

Thick branches curved overhead, filtering golden sunlight through their broad leaves. Nestled between the foliage, clusters of plump fruit hung low, their skins a soft coral pink with golden speckles. Bees buzzed lazily nearby, drawn to the sugary scent.

"Would you like some sweet fruit?" he asked, already calculating how many he could grab in one climb.

Isabella tilted her head back, her eyes trailing the glistening fruit above.

She hadn’t even noticed them before. But now? With her throat dry and her stomach aching? Yeah... those sweet fruits suddenly looked divine.

And then there was Glimora—nestled quietly in her arms—who began fidgeting. The little creature’s tongue darted out as it stared longingly at the branches above.

"Oh no," Isabella whispered, glancing down. "You’re already drooling?"

Glimora chirped in excitement.