The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 199 - 200: You’re going to get someone killed with that face

Chapter 199: Chapter 200: You’re going to get someone killed with that face

Ophelia, who stood wringing her hands like she still might drag him out of this, looked up with watery eyes. Her face was soft, thoughtful.

"He wasn’t... always this way," she said quietly. "He used to be sweet. He brought me berries once. I remember he—he made me laugh when I cried over my little sand-hopper"

Isabella rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t shoot out of her head.

"Girl, I don’t care if he once sprinkled flower petals in your bath and sang lullabies to birds. The man I’m seeing now is a spit-stained disaster with the soul of a toilet. You can’t hug the nice out of a monster."

Ophelia bit her lip, saying nothing. Her gaze lingered on Gerwin as he flopped under another punch, a mixture of sadness and silent shame flickering in her eyes.

Another woman had picked up a wooden spoon from a cooking pot and was whacking Gerwin with it like she was tenderizing meat. Isabella clapped once, approvingly.

"Excellent technique! Great form!"

But before the next punch could land—

A voice cut through the noise like an axe through silk.

"What," it said, deep and cold and unmistakably royal, "is going on here?"

The crowd froze.

Even the wind seemed to stop.

Cyrus stiffened, his pink eyes flicking up. frёewebηovel.cѳm

Gerwin sagged in his coils like a broken wet sack, barely breathing now.

Isabella slowly turned.

At the edge of the gathering, standing with all the presence of a thunderstorm, was Kian.

The king.

His white hair swept across his brow, eyes sharp and unreadable. He wasn’t shouting. He didn’t need to.

His voice alone was enough to silence a hundred war drums.

Next to him stood several unfamiliar men and women—tall, elegant, dressed in the finest hides Isabella had seen since she stepped foot in this world.

Their clothing was clean and well-made, with neat stitching that hinted they were people of status.

She immediately clocked it.

Ah. The important visitors. The ones everyone’s been whispering about for days. Of course they show up now.

Fantastic.

Behind her, the women were stepping back slowly, hands still clenched, breathing hard. One woman hid the bark behind her back. Another kicked dirt over a broken wooden spoon.

Gerwin sagged fully now, nose streaming a sad trail of snot and soap bubbles. His lip was split. One eye was swelling shut. He made a gurgling sound that may have once been a cry for help but now sounded like an overcooked squash.

Kian’s gaze swept the scene once, but when it passed over Isabella, it lingered for a fraction longer—sharp, unreadable.

And when her gaze met his, last night crashed back into her like a slap.

His hand gripping her waist, lips brushing her ear, the way his voice had dipped when he called her name. No recognition of that brief, unspoken pause in the moonlit hot spring. The heat. The stare. The silence that had said everything and nothing.

But the man standing in front of her now?

He looked like none of that had happened.

Stone-faced. Distant. Drenched in royal detachment. Not a flicker of warmth in his expression.

Her chest gave a tiny, traitorous tug—a rare, unfamiliar discomfort, almost like... rejection. Or maybe worse—being forgotten.

She blinked it away.

Just like always.

Smile up, heart down.

Her lips curved into that signature grin—the one that usually spelled incoming trouble, possibly illegal, and definitely unwise.

The grin that had Shelia once whispering, "You’re going to get someone killed with that face."

"Is there an explanation for this?" Kian asked, voice cold enough to freeze over hell.

He stared at her like she was just another nuisance he’d been forced to tolerate. A strange woman who’d barged into his world with chaotic energy and no regard for rules or rank.

Isabella inhaled deeply through her nose, slow and steady.

She looked like a disaster. Dust clung to her arms, her once-neat skirt bore a soap stain near the hem, and her right foot was still sore from personally delivering a justice-kick earlier. But she stood tall, chin up, spine straight, like she’d just returned from a royal summit instead of a public beatdown.

Then came the smile. Bright. Dazzling. Troublemaking.

"Yes, Your Majesty," she said sweetly. "We were... engaging in a community-building exercise."

A thick, charged pause followed.

Then from somewhere in the crowd, a woman snorted.

Another choked back laughter.

Someone whispered, "Emotional processing, my ass."

Cyrus, still holding Gerwin’s limp body like he weighed nothing, turned to glance between Isabella and Kian. His usual calm, easygoing smile had vanished, leaving behind something unreadable. His pink eyes narrowed slightly—not in anger, but in quiet assessment.

Even he wasn’t sure where this was going.

Kian raised one brow, the only movement on his otherwise unmoving face.

"A community-building exercise," he repeated, voice flat as a blade.

"Yes," Isabella replied with a lightness that dared anyone to question her. She clasped her hands behind her back like a schoolgirl delivering a very illegal science experiment.

"We call it Public Accountability and Hand-to-Hand Emotional Processing."

Gerwin let out a weak groan from the ground, somewhere between a whimper and an apology.

The visitors behind Kian remained statuesque, unsure whether to intervene or pretend this was just how things worked around here.

But one man—black-haired, unnervingly clean, and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else—tilted his head with mild interest. Euphim, one of the visitors. His lip twitched slightly.

Approval? Amusement? It was hard to tell, as he shot a side glance to Garan who stood proudly.

Kian didn’t speak for a long moment.

Then, finally, he moved.

He stepped forward.

The crowd instinctively parted for him—silent, reverent, like water breaking around a mountain.

Gerwin, still semi-conscious, let out a high-pitched noise and tried to roll over. Failed.

Kian stopped in front of him, gaze flicking over the soap-drenched, sniveling figure that had once strutted through the city like he owned it.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

Then—

A voice shrieked from behind the visiting group.

"Is that a snake beastman?!"

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