The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 169: I—I was hungry

Isabella turned slowly, eyeing the four men like someone inspecting vegetables at the market—and finding them overripe, underwhelming, or oddly shaped. Her expression was unreadable, all cool detachment and faint curiosity, like this entire event was just another errand that dared interrupt her day.

The first man—shirtless, tan, and visibly trying to flex despite holding nothing—straightened as soon as she looked at him. His chest puffed like a rooster. He even tossed his hair back like he was in a romance drama.

"Ma’am," he greeted with too much confidence and not enough self-awareness.

Isabella blinked at him once, then turned to Ophelia. "Why is this one glistening like an oiled ham?"

The man faltered.

Ophelia’s eyes widened. "I—I think he was chopping wood before I got there! That’s probably just sweat! And maybe some animal fat—someone was roasting something!

The second man—leaner, slightly taller, eating a meat skewer like he hadn’t been warned this was a formal-ish request—nodded with a mouth full of grilled something. "She’s funny," he mumbled around a bite, pointing his skewer toward Isabella. "I like her."

Isabella stared at the meat. Then at him. Then back at the meat.

"Why is he eating like he traded ten fish for that?"

Luca cleared his throat and subtly took a step back.

The third one, the quiet one, was already regretting his existence. His eyes flicked between the clay pots and Isabella’s expression like he was calculating if he could fake an ankle injury and limp back to his mother’s orchard.

The fourth—tall, broad, and probably the only one with a fully functioning brain cell—offered a small, awkward smile. "We’re here to help," he said politely, scratching the back of his neck. "I’m—uh, Jaro. This is—uh—well, you’ve met them."

His attempt at leadership was noble. And doomed.

Isabella finally smiled.

Oh, not a warm smile.

A smile. The kind that made people wonder if they were about to be praised or skinned.

"Lovely," she said with silky sweetness. "Since you’re so eager to help, you can carry those"—she gestured vaguely to the heavy clay pots lined up behind her like an army of ceramic soldiers—"into my hut. Gently. If even one cracks, I will personally ensure you never find a mate in this lifetime. Understood?"

The first man—still glistening—nodded too fast. "Yes, ma’am!"

The second one continued chewing. "Cool cool cool," he said, half choking.

The third muttered a quiet, doomed-sounding, "Yes ma’am."

Jaro just lifted the first pot with both arms and tried to look brave.

They began hauling the pots inside, grunting and stumbling slightly as the weight caught up with them.

One of them misjudged the width of the clay pot and clipped his hip against the stone entrance with a muted thud. He grunted, more annoyed than hurt, and gave the stone slab a narrowed glare—like it had personally challenged him.

"Did the rock just try me?" he muttered, rolling his shoulder with exaggerated nonchalance.

"Careful," another one snorted. "Would hate to see you lose a fight to hut frame."

"I didn’t flinch," he replied quickly. "You flinched."

Isabella watched it all with her arms crossed and the air of a woman who could fix the world, but chose not to out of sheer exhaustion.

Luca leaned in. "Do you ever feel like you’re secretly being punished by the universe?"

"I am the universe’s punishment," Isabella replied dryly. "But it keeps sending me idiots as if that’ll change anything."

Just then, Ophelia popped back in, bouncing like she had a spring under each foot. Her cheeks were flushed, and she looked far too pleased with herself for someone who just delivered four half-broken men to a soap empress.

"Oh!" she chirped, twirling a strand of hair. "Kian said it’s fine if two of them stay and guard your hut all night! For safety of our precious soap."

Isabella turned slowly. "You want me to pick?"

Ophelia grinned. "Mhm. Two of your favorites."

Isabella looked back at the men. The one still flexing. The one chewing. The one praying for death. The one trying to pretend none of this was happening.

There was a long pause.

Then she took a deep breath and said, "Leave me. I need a moment to spiritually recover from this buffet of mediocrity."

Ophelia giggled, Luca tried not to laugh, and the four men looked deeply confused.

No one expected what Isabella would say next.

And that made it worse.

Isabella stood with her arms crossed, the rough bark of the hut’s frame scraping softly against her forearms. The fading light of dusk filtered through the cracks in the woven reeds, casting long shadows over the dirt floor. Around her neck hung simple carved bone beads, dull and unpolished, swinging slightly as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

Behind her, the final pot thudded onto the floor, and the men stood like overgrown deer caught in a thorn trap—sweaty, awkward, and unsure if they were about to be fed or skinned.

She narrowed her eyes slowly, the way a predator sizes up prey not worth the chase. Then she uncrossed her arms.

And began.

"You." She pointed at the shiny one still flexing. "Yes, you. You’ve been glistening since you got here. I’m not impressed. That’s not strength. That’s desperation soaked in leaf oil. What are you trying to fight? Your reflection?"

His mouth opened. No sound came out.

"Next."

Her eyes slid to the one still chewing the same piece of roasted meat.

"I’ve had tree bark that digests faster. Did you think you were here to graze? Did Ophelia drag you from a feast? Or were you just born chewing?"

He blinked slowly and wiped his mouth. "I—I was hungry."

She sniffed. "I hope you brought a blanket too. Because if you stayed, you’d be guarding my hut with your dreams while snoring."

Next, her gaze swept to the one who’d barely said a word—the one who looked like the ground might swallow him whole if he prayed hard enough.

"You," she said, voice soft but scalpel-sharp. "I can smell the fear on you. You nearly tripped carrying a pot, and unless that pot whispered threats, I don’t think you’re cut out for night duty. Come back when you grow a spine—or find someone willing to loan you theirs."

The man visibly wilted.

Then, finally, she turned to the last one—Jaro.