The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 201 - 202: He should be beheaded!

Isabella looked up, confused, and when she met all the eyes glued to her like she had grown two heads, she blinked. Once. Twice.

Then, she turned her head slowly to check if something—or someone—was standing behind her. A monster? A flying snake? Perhaps the goddess of embarrassment herself?

Nothing.

Her brow furrowed. "What the...?" she muttered under her breath.

Then it clicked.

Her gaze snapped to Cyrus, who was still holding Gerwin upside down like a misbehaving radish. Isabella’s eyes narrowed to lethal slits as she shot Cyrus a glare that screamed: Of course put him down! What do you mean by staring at me like that, you beautiful, rebellious dumbo?!

He was just standing there. Staring. Unbothered. Unmoved. Completely and utterly oblivious to the chaos he was inviting like a damn open buffet.

Isabella wanted to scream. Who openly defied Kian like that?

Even she had the decency to do it with a bit of finesse. She finessed her rebellion. She served it on a silver platter with a side of sarcasm and sass. But this man? He served his defiance raw, bloody, and straight to the king’s plate.

And Kian—oh gods—Kian’s face hadn’t changed, but Isabella knew. She knew that man was not about to let this slide. Kian didn’t get loud. He got quiet. And when Kian got quiet?

Well... people got dead.

But Cyrus, the little chaos noodle, didn’t seem to care. He met her glare with a blink, then nodded once like your wish, your highness, and unwound his tail slowly. Dramatically.

Letting Gerwin collapse face-first into the dirt with a satisfying wet plop.

The crowd flinched as one. A few gasped. One woman dropped her basket of starfruit.

Kian said absolutely nothing. His stillness was unnerving. Like a predator waiting for the exact moment to strike. Everyone was watching him—everyone—because they all knew what should’ve happened next.

Guards should’ve rushed forward. Orders should’ve been barked. Cyrus should’ve been tackled and whipped until he forgot his own name.

That’s how it should have gone.

But instead, the silence stretched... and stretched... and—

"He should be beheaded!" Isolde shrieked, her voice shooting up an octave.

Everyone turned, mouths half-open in horror, like she’d just suggested they eat babies for brunch.

Isolde’s eyes were wide with disbelief, waving her arms like she was the only sane one left in a town full of brain-dead sheep. "That was an insult to you, Kian! You are his king! What is going on here?!"

Kian didn’t blink.

Isabella, lips twitching, was about to open her mouth when Cyrus beat her to it.

"He is not my king," he said coolly.

Isabella froze.

And then her soul left her body.

She stared at Cyrus, eyes bulging. Was this man chasing death on purpose? Was it a hobby? Should she knit him a scarf that read: "Please Execute Me, I Beg You"?

Even Euphim, who was rarely shocked by anything, let out a strangled cough like you done messed up now, bro.

"Come here," Isabella hissed, grabbing the front of her dress in pure stress. Cyrus obediently slithered over like a happy little serpent, not a care in the world. He looked like he was approaching his favorite sunbathing rock, not the furious woman who might throttle him on sight.

Isabella grabbed his hand and dragged him forward, stepping in front of him like a tiny, furious shield.

She looked around.

And paused.

Something was wrong.

Then she felt it. That familiar soft, sneaky sensation against her ankles. Her eyes dropped.

Cyrus’ tail.

He was wrapping his tail around her feet like he wasn’t in the middle of committing social suicide. The audacity. The nerve. The pure, unfiltered gall.

She twisted back toward him. "Change back too," she snapped in a whisper.

Cyrus blinked like a slow cat, then nodded. In a blink, the shimmering coils vanished, and in their place, his legs reappeared—pale-skinned, tall, and now dressed in a dark skirt with a perfect looking trim.

"Good," Isabella muttered under her breath, mentally adding "and thank the stars" for not making this worse. fгeewёbnoѵel_cσm

She turned back to the crowd.

Faces stared back, unreadable. Mixed emotions. Some looked uncomfortable with Isolde’s words. Others seemed to silently agree. But Isabella didn’t care what side they were on.

No one was touching Cyrus.

As far as the village was concerned, Cyrus was her brother. And if they tried anything funny, they’d be losing both of them. Because she was not going to sit back and let her chaos snake get thrown into a dungeon because of some pompous peacock people and their bruised egos.

Plus, did they forget he helped beat the crap out of Gerwin? The very same Gerwin who had been abusing them all in secret?

Traitors. All of them.

Isabella cleared her throat. Time to do damage control.

"Do not mind my brother," she said sweetly, her voice laced with sugar—and arsenic. "He sometimes—"

"Brother?!" Isolde screeched like she’d just been stabbed.

Isabella inhaled sharply through her nose. She hated—hated—being interrupted. And Isolde was on a roll.

"He is your brother?!" another voice boomed from the back.

Isabella’s eyes snapped to Garan. He stood with that tall, arrogant posture that screamed, I think I’m handsome and I own five mirrors. His peacock feathers fluttered lightly in the breeze, glittering under the sun like he was trying to be nature’s disco ball.

She looked him over. Once. Twice.

His fur was good. Too good, really. But also slightly messy. Like he’d spent too long preening this morning, then fell on his face halfway to the event.

Isabella tilted her head at him, noting the look of genuine surprise painted all over his annoyingly symmetrical face.

"What?" she said blankly. "Is it so hard to believe?"

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. From behind the well, a group of men had gathered, carrying freshly made buckets that looked like they were made by someone who took their woodworking very seriously.

They whispered among themselves like gossiping hens.

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