The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 227 - 228: This is why I love you

"Girl, you’ll have to wait so I can find out," Isabella said, straight-up and with zero filter. Her tone was laced with her usual sass, but this time she tried—really really tried—to sound nice. Gentle, even.

Ophelia blinked up at her, those big watery eyes wobbling like she was one emotional breeze away from full-on sobbing.

"So... you’re saying you can’t save her?" Ophelia asked. Her lips were quivering now—violently. Her voice cracked mid-word, and Isabella felt her stomach twist.

Oh no.

Isabella’s sassy attitude faltered for a moment as she stared at the pitiful girl in front of her. "I’m not God, alright? Don’t look at me like I can save her and I’m just... choosing not to." Her voice pitched defensively, arms folded over her chest, trying to act like it didn’t sting.

But it did.

Because the way Ophelia looked at her right now made her feel like she was holding the key to heaven and choosing to keep it in her back pocket.

Her eyes widened again when she saw Ophelia’s lips part.

And then the tears came.

Big. Glistening. Sloppy.

Like the kind that bypassed sobs and went straight to heartbreak.

"Ok, ok, OKAY!" Isabella practically shouted as she flailed her hands in front of her. "I’ll try my possible best, no matter what, to save her, alright?!"

She exhaled sharply, chest rising and falling as if she’d just sprinted up a mountain of guilt.

Ophelia’s eyes shimmered. "Really?" Her voice was a ghost, small and hopeful and trembling.

"Really," Isabella nodded, softening a little. "Now, all you have to do is go to the room and wait. Quietly."

Ophelia’s smile flickered—but just for a second. Then she shook her head slowly, panic swimming behind her lashes. "No... I want to see her. I want to come—"

And there it was.

The exact thing Isabella was afraid of.

No way. No chance.

If Ophelia saw Shelia’s state and fainted—or worse, let out a banshee wail—Isabella would end up reviving two people. And she had enough stress already.

Isabella’s hands shot to her back and began signing behind her like she was a secret agent sending a code. Do something. Now.

Cyrus blinked from the side, looking down, his calm expression confused for a beat. But when he read the silent message in her finger wiggles, he caught on instantly.

With a gentle breath, he walked to Ophelia and spoke softly. "It’s going to be okay."

Before she could ask what he meant—bonk.

Ophelia’s body slumped gently into his arms, unconscious.

"You know," Isabella said, smirking as she relaxed her shoulders, "this is why I love you."

Cyrus blinked, almost like he hadn’t expected her to say that. A rosy blush crept up his neck, flooding his cheeks with warmth. He shifted Ophelia gently in his arms, careful not to let her head loll too much, then looked down, trying—and failing—not to smile.

"Ah... I—I’ll take her to your room," he mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear with his free hand, still not meeting her eyes, and gave a tiny, nervous laugh that disappeared into his throat. His lashes lowered slightly as he glanced at Isabella again, the blush deepening when he saw she was still watching him.

"Make sure she doesn’t hit her head or anything. Her emotions are already fragile. I don’t want her waking up even more dramatic."

He gave a soft chuckle, turned, and walked off, effortlessly carrying Ophelia like she weighed nothing. His steps were so quiet, they barely made a sound as he disappeared down the corridor.

"I’ll be careful," he added quietly, almost like a promise. "She won’t even feel the bump when she wakes up."

Isabella’s smirk softened for half a second as she watched him turn away, arms full, face red, walking off with such quiet grace that not even the wind dared to disturb his steps.

Honestly, how could someone be that soft and that strong at the same time?

He was kinda...cute.

Isabella looked down at her shoulder. Glimora was staring at her with big doe eyes, as if silently saying, You’re heartless but effective. I like it.

"Tsk," Isabella said, rolling her eyes. "I don’t know who keeps spoiling you."

Glimora blinked once with the most innocent look imaginable. It was a face that practically screamed: You mama, who else?

Isabella snorted. "Don’t look at me like that."

She plucked the small beast from her shoulder, cradling it in her arms and kissing the top of its furry head. "You better not fart again," she muttered, her voice teasing.

Glimora melted like warm butter, making itself small and purring in her arms. Isabella giggled, tension easing out of her bones for a rare moment.

But that moment didn’t last.

A soft sound broke the silence. Not footsteps. Not a voice.

A tone.

Mechanical. Cold.

"Access to fan granted," Bubu’s voice chimed from the air, robotic and suspiciously chipper.

Isabella froze.

Her smile dropped. Her muscles stiffened.

"Now?" she whispered, more to herself than anyone. "Now you grant me the fan?"

She stared at the air like the system had just betrayed her. "Where were you when I wanted to deal with Isolde? Hmm? Where were you when Zyran was being the definition of problematic?! You didn’t even respond! But now you want to give me a fan?!"

Her voice hissed like steam escaping a kettle.

Something was wrong.

She could feel it.

She turned toward the far end of the corridor where the shadows began. Deep, stretching shadows that seemed darker than they should’ve been.

Her stomach flipped.

That’s when she heard it—a whistle.

Casual. Unrushed. Echoing through the air like the prelude to a nightmare.

Isabella’s heart skipped.

That wasn’t Cyrus.

He didn’t walk like that. His presence was quiet, calm, familiar.

This... was not that.

Isabella tightened her grip on Glimora.

No movement. No noise.

She kept her eyes locked forward, refusing to summon the fan just yet.

Then—figures.

Three.

They stepped out of the darkness like they were born from it.

Blurry silhouettes at first. Then clearer.

Three men. Their chests bare, muscles thick with scars. They wore hide skirts and nothing else. Wild hair matted with dirt. Feet bare. Their eyes gleamed like wolves just before the pounce.

Isabella didn’t step back because she was scared.

She stepped back because she was disgusted.

She wrinkled her nose. "Ugh. You all smell like you’ve been bathing in armpit juice."

Her fingers twitched. Glimora growled softly in her arms.

The one in the center gave a toothy grin.

And she could see it now.

This wasn’t going to be pretty. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

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