The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 202 - 203: How could you beat him that badly?!

"I still don’t believe he is her brother," a man muttered, scratching his chin like he was trying to dig a deeper thought out of his beard.

"Me too," another chimed in, his tail flicking with curiosity as he leaned toward the first guy like this was the juiciest gossip he’d heard all week.

And just like that, a wave of whispers fluttered through the crowd like wind rustling gossip-hungry leaves. Some people nodded thoughtfully, others raised their brows so high they were in danger of disappearing into their hairlines.

"Did you see how protective he was?"

"Snake brothers don’t act like that around here..."

"Well, they could be step-siblings..."

"Isn’t she too... normal-looking to be related to him?"

"Did you see the way his tail wrapped around her legs? I don’t even wrap my tail around my mate like that."

Some were clearly drawing diagrams in their minds, mapping out imaginary family trees while side-eyeing Cyrus and Isabella like their existence offended logic.

Isabella? Unbothered. She didn’t even blink. She simply tightened her grip on Cyrus’ hand and gave the crowd the most serene, blank expression she could muster—as if she wasn’t internally plotting to slap the next idiot who questioned her life decisions.

Because here? In this upside-down, gossip-fueled, beast-filled village? Nobody could prove anything.

They didn’t have labs. Or blood tests. Or even a quill and paper DNA kit. All they had was speculation and really bad haircuts.

Plus, over here, the mating logic made things even messier. A woman could mate with five different beastmen and pop out a wolf, a snake, a duck, a horse, and a damn kangaroo—and they’d all be siblings.

So who were they to say she wasn’t Cyrus’ sister? He could be her third cousin’s baby daddy’s brother’s reincarnated snake-uncle for all they knew.

Meanwhile, only men had the ability to transform into beast forms, leaving women like her in their human appearance 24/7. So there were no clear markers. No glowing tail. No beast aura. Nothing.

Meaning—good luck proving anything, folks.

Isabella smirked inwardly. She’d love to see them try.

Right on cue, a groan echoed from the ground.

"Ugh..."

Everyone paused. Turned.

"Oh right... Gerwin," someone mumbled.

They had forgotten about him entirely. The man’s broken dignity was just lying there face-first in the dirt, like a damp forgotten sock.

Kian’s eyes narrowed faintly, though his face remained unreadable. Typical. Probably plotting twelve different death scenarios in his head.

"Why did you all beat him up?" Kian finally asked, dragging his gaze away from Isabella’s hand that was still gripping Cyrus’ with scandalous possessiveness.

There was a long pause. A leaf drifted lazily through the air. Someone coughed.

And then Isabella—liar, actress, legend—cleared her throat softly, brushing invisible dust off her dress.

"Well, Gerwin decided to pay me a visit this morning," she said with the sweetest tone imaginable. "He threatened to hit me if I didn’t give him some soap."

It was delivered so calmly, so gracefully, that some of the crowd actually gasped. The drama. The nerve. Soap?

"L-lies!" Gerwin croaked from the floor, sounding like a dying frog.

If Isabella didn’t already know what a walking waste of breath he was, she might have pitied him. But no. This? This was delicious.

In fact, she was starting to regret not knocking him fully unconscious. His voice was making her stomach churn.

"Do I lie?" Isabella asked, her voice a soft purr as she turned to the group of women still standing behind her like a mini militia of bathrobe-clad warriors.

They all shook their heads in eerie unison.

"No," one of them whispered.

"Not even once," another added.

"She always tells the truth, even when we ask if our hair looks bad," a third muttered bitterly.

"See?" Isabella said brightly, like she was hosting a tea party and not covering up a lowkey public assault.

She stepped forward. "He even hit Ophelia."

The gasp that echoed was so loud it could have knocked birds from the sky.

Isabella gently let go of Cyrus’ hand—his fingers lingered a little too long—and approached Ophelia with practiced grace. The girl stood stiffly, eyes wide as Isabella tucked back a curtain of hair from her cheek.

A red mark. Clear as day. Right across the cheekbone.

"He hit her," Isabella repeated, her smile never reaching her eyes.

Those pretty blue eyes? Ice cold.

The villagers looked horrified. Gerwin looked like he wanted to crawl into a nearby puddle and drown himself. A few guards actually clenched their fists, itching to stomp him a little more.

Then a sudden shuffle broke the moment.

Someone pushed through the crowd, shoving bodies aside like a drama-hungry bull.

Alena.

Isabella’s smile instantly dropped as her gaze sharpened. Oh great.

Alena ran straight to Gerwin, gasping like she was auditioning for the lead role in Overly Attached Mate: Tragedy in a Fur dress. She knelt beside him and lifted his dirt-crusted face onto her lap, patting his cheeks like he was a fallen war hero and not the village’s most annoying pest.

"How could you beat him that badly?!" Alena wailed, tears glimmering in her eyes as though the sight of Gerwin drooling on her thigh was too much to bear.

Isabella rolled her eyes so hard, half the village saw it.

Theatrics. Absolute. Theatrics.

She knew bad acting when she saw it.

And Alena? Alena was putting on the most pitiful performance since the dawn of time. A tragic heroine in a melodrama that no one had asked for. Tears trembling in her lashes, her delicate hands cradling the bruised, groaning head of Gerwin like he was some misunderstood lover and not a village menace with the emotional range of a moldy spoon.

Isabella watched the whole charade unfold with the stillness of a seasoned predator. Her arms folded. One brow twitching. Her jaw relaxed, but her eyes? Her eyes were locked and loaded.

She wasn’t buying it.

This bitch on the floor—Alena, the local drama queen—was banking on sympathy. Hoping to gather enough side-eyes and gasps to turn the crowd against her. But what she clearly didn’t realize was that Isabella wasn’t just good at pretending—she was born for the spotlight.

Too bad she didn’t even need to act today.

Because unfortunately for Alena, Gerwin was a real-life monster, and Isabella? She was simply the girl who had had enough. freēwēbnovel.com

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