The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 232 - 233: Why must it always be you?

The moment Cyrus pushed aside the thick curtain of stitched hide covering the entrance, the musty scent of damp stone and stale air wafted toward them like an ominous welcome. A soft torch flickered inside, casting shadows that danced strangely across the uneven walls.

And then—there he was.

Asael.

Standing just near the foot of the bed, arms crossed and expression sharp with suspicion, like he’d been guarding some hidden treasure.

He didn’t even have time to blink before Isabella whisper-shouted like a toddler seeing a cockroach, "Him! Him! Do him too!"

Her voice, loud enough to carry but still weirdly hushed, was frantic as she turned to Cyrus, clutching Glimora closer like a shield.

Even Glimora, who was still half-curled and wide-eyed in Isabella’s arms, mimicked her by flicking her tail toward Asael, ears flattening.

Cyrus gave his usual nod—obedient, expression unreadable—and turned to the poor man.

"What—" Asael managed, blinking rapidly like someone who just realized their drink had been spiked.

But before he could say more, his limbs wobbled, and a heavy drowsiness swept across his face. He glanced back at Isabella with a tragic, betrayed look.

"Why must it always be you?"

Thud.

He collapsed to the floor like a sack of frustrated potatoes.

Isabella stood there for a moment, blinking.

"What do I always do?" she asked blankly, turning to Cyrus, pointing dramatically at the now-slumped Asael.

Cyrus only shrugged, his expression the picture of innocence. Clearly saying: I don’t know either, he must be crazy.

Isabella nodded firmly. "That’s true. Craze indeed."

She finally stepped down from Cyrus’ tail with a little hop, landing on the cold floor. Immediately she took a breath—

And regretted it.

"Oh my—is that rot in the air?!" she choked, slapping a hand over her nose as her eyes watered, she turned to look at Cyrus for confirmation.

Cyrus gave her a solemn nod. "Yes."

"Wait... wait—" Her eyes grew wide with dawning horror. "Is that Shelia in the air?!"

Even Glimora stared up at her, blinking slowly, before mimicking Isabella with a scrunched face and dramatic sniffle of disgust. Isabella blinked, stunned.

"Oh my stars... you’re actually learning," she muttered and gave the beast a light tap on the nose. "You better not pick up my bad habits next."

Glimora blinked with a look that screamed: too late.

Isabella swallowed her rising nerves and muttered to herself, "Wow. I’m not sure I wanna see her anymore. I mean, I came with good intentions, but this... this is corpse-smelling levels of trauma."

She took a hesitant step back, her heel catching slightly on the uneven stone, forcing her to steady herself. Her heart thudded against her ribcage like a war drum, and her throat tightened as the rancid scent clawed deeper into her senses. It wasn’t just rot—it was despair, helplessness, the kind of sourness that clung to your skin and made you question your own strength.

"I thought I could handle anything," she whispered under her breath, voice trembling. "But this... this feels like walking into a grave I didn’t dig."

Glimora shifted slightly in her arms, nuzzling into her elbow like a soft, warm reminder that she wasn’t alone—but it didn’t stop the cold crawling up her spine. Isabella blinked hard, trying to chase away the image forming in her mind: Shelia, once laughing, teasing, vibrant... now lying somewhere ahead, broken, barely recognizable.

She drew in a shaky breath, tasting iron and ash in the back of her throat. A lump sat there, unmoving. Her hand clenched around Glimora’s soft fur like it was her only anchor.

"What if I look at her... and I break?" she asked herself. "What if I can’t even fake strength this time?"

But she didn’t stop walking. She never did.

Cyrus stared at her, his gentle features shadowed by a deep frown. His pink eyes, always soft, now carried a weight of regret as they studied her frozen figure. Her arms clutched Glimora too tightly, her jaw set too stiffly, and though she tried to look composed, Cyrus could see it—her knuckles whitening around the beast, her chest rising and falling too fast. She was scared. And hurting.

Maybe he shouldn’t have brought her here at all.

The guilt pressed against his ribs like a tightening band. She had come here to help, yes, but Cyrus hadn’t thought through what seeing Shelia like this might actually do to her. For all her boldness, her sharp tongue, her never-ending sass, Isabella was still... human. She felt things. She just didn’t show it the way others did.

He shifted slightly on his feet, hands twitching with the urge to reach out—to pull her in, to wrap his arms around her, to offer her something more than just his quiet presence. He wanted to protect her from the smell, from the pain, from the memory of this moment. But he knew Isabella. She didn’t like being comforted unless she asked for it, which she never did. She didn’t like appearing weak, even when her world was crumbling inside.

So instead, he took a single step closer, just enough that his warmth touched her side, a silent signal: I’m here if you need me.

And though he didn’t say a word, everything in his eyes begged her: You don’t have to face this alone.

"Help me with the fire," she said quickly, turning away from the worst of the smell.

Cyrus nodded and moved ahead, snapping his fingers. A soft glow lit the torches on the wall with a low whoosh, casting flickering gold across the chamber. The warmth of the fire did nothing to erase the scent of rot and sickness in the air, but it made the shadows dance less threateningly.

Isabella took a deep breath—then another five more.

"Okay. Here goes nothing."

She stepped in behind him, slippers tapping faintly on the stone, and looked toward the bed.

The light revealed Shelia’s figure.

Isabella instantly closed her eyes, gripping Glimora tighter. But after a moment of stillness, she opened them again and forced herself to look.

Shelia lay there, pale and barely breathing. Her body unmoving, chest rising in slow, shaky intervals. Her skin had lost its glow, replaced with bruised splotches and yellowing patches. But her face—

"Oh my—" Isabella gasped, hand over her mouth.

Shelia’s once-beautiful features were now grotesquely disfigured. Her face was cracked and blistered, warped like melted wax. Some parts were charred black, others red and raw. It was the type of sight that made your heart lurch in your chest.

"Damn..." Isabella whispered. "She really is—"

But the words didn’t come. She couldn’t finish it. Not like this.

She stared. Silent. And for once, truly unsure.

Her grip on Glimora loosened. The little beast didn’t struggle. She could feel her owner’s trembling through her arms.

A burning wave rose in Isabella’s chest—not of fear, but of rage.

At Kian.

At his silence.

At his cowardice.

He let this happen. He let her rot here like some forgotten piece of meat, let his sister’s friend fall apart in this cave of silence. How long had he known? And yet, nothing. Not a whisper. Not a flicker of guilt.

She wanted to find him and smack him. With a rock. Then throw the rock at his back again. Then maybe set his stupid hide skirt on fire.

She clenched her jaw.

"Gosh, Shelia. You have a lot to tell me when I’m done with you," Isabella muttered, stroking Glimora’s fur absently.

She didn’t realize she was pacing until Cyrus looked up from checking Shelia’s pulse.

That’s when it happened.

"So you can save her?"

The voice was deep. Not Cyrus. And it came from behind her.

Isabella screamed.

Not like a little scream. But a full dramatic echoing shriek that would’ve woken the dead if they weren’t already watching.

She whipped around, nearly dropping Glimora, who hissed in offense.

Visit freewe𝑏n(o)v𝒆l.𝑐𝘰𝑚 for the best novel reading experience