The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts
Chapter 184: You’re mad at me, aren’t you?

Chapter 184: Chapter 184: You’re mad at me, aren’t you?

"Yes?" Isabella’s voice came out as a nervous giggle, the kind that hides a tremor of uncertainty. She half-smiled, eyes sparkling with a mix of challenge and curiosity. "Don’t tell me it’s harmful to you!" she teased, trying to keep the mood light, but the moment her words hung in the air, Cyrus’s reaction silenced her.

His head shook slowly, deliberately—an almost imperceptible but firm refusal. His gaze stayed steady, calm, but there was a weight behind it, something heavier than the gentle man she had come to know.

"You gave me something so precious, Isabella," he said softly, voice low and almost a whisper, as if trying to shield her from the truth. "And you can’t keep going there."

He reached out then, his hand gently grasping her wrist. The touch wasn’t harsh or demanding; it was the quiet insistence of someone desperate to protect what they loved. His fingers curled lightly around her arm, grounding her in the moment, halting whatever words she might have tried to say.

"It’s dangerous," he added, voice trembling with something she hadn’t seen before — a deep, quiet fear that mirrored the shadows in his eyes.

Isabella’s smile wavered as she searched his face, trying to understand the gravity behind his words. "Because it’s dangerous and harmful," she said slowly, realization dawning in her eyes. But then, the mischievous glint returned, weak but defiant. "Don’t worry, Cyrus. If I ever die—"

Her sentence was cut short by Cyrus’s hand tightening just a fraction, his palm pressing softly against her forearm as if to anchor her from drifting down that dark path. "No, please," he interrupted, eyes never leaving hers. "I’m serious. It is dangerous there."

His tone was calm but edged with urgency, a warning born from memories he dared not speak aloud.

Isabella looked up at him, searching his face, trying to decode the storm brewing beneath his serene exterior. The fear was unmistakable—pure and raw, a rare crack in his usually composed demeanor.

How could she explain what burned inside her? That no matter the cost, she had to return to that mountain, to complete the tasks fate had laid before her? There was no room for negotiation, no retreat in her mind.

She swallowed hard and pulled her arm gently from his grasp, stepping back with a steadying breath. "Cyrus," she began, voice low and serious—stripped of her usual playfulness—"Normally, I’d be like, ’Sureee! I’ll never go there again.’ But... I don’t want you to get hurt finding out I went back on my promise."

She met his eyes, fierce and unwavering. "I must keep going back."

The words hung in the air, heavier than any unspoken threat. For once, there was no quirkiness, no laugh to soften the blow. The usual spark of jest that danced in her gaze was absent. Cyrus’s calm eyes darkened with something like defeat.

He understood the mountain’s worth—the rare herbs, the gifts it offered—but that was never enough to explain why she would risk everything for it. The mountain was a paradox: a beautiful haven and a deadly trap. Its dangers were whispered fears that stretched beyond mortal understanding.

What scared him most wasn’t the mountain itself, but what could happen when she brought pieces of it back. The familiar scent clinging to Opehlia was proof enough. She had taken those wild, potent ingredients and crafted soap—then planned to share it with an entire village.

No fear, no hesitation.

He admired her bravery, the fearless fire that set her apart. But he also knew the weight of fear—the cold, honest truth that fear often saved lives.

He knew the creatures on the mountain. They weren’t beasts to be fought or outwitted. They were ancient, relentless forces that could not be killed easily—if at all—by mere physical strength. They belonged to a world that defied the beastmen understanding, and their presence alone was enough to shred the bravest heart.

And worse? His people—the ones who watched from shadows, who roamed the mountain’s dark edges—visited the mountain too.

What would happen if they discovered Isabella? If they realized she wasn’t like them, that she was different?

The thought twisted his gut. They would take her. They would see her as a prize or a threat. They would hurt her in ways that left scars deeper than flesh. They would use her until nothing of the strong, proud woman he knew remained.

He could not bear the image of her broken and battered, ruined beyond repair.

His mind raced further. The herb—he had taken it without noticing, without permission. If he had realized earlier, he never would have taken it. But he did, and now she was running low, forced to make the dangerous journey again.

He had promised himself long ago never to force decisions on her, never to interfere without reason. But the weight of the possibility—of losing her, of standing by helplessly—was a crushing burden.

His voice was steady but quiet, carrying the weight of every unspoken fear and hope. "I’ll go to the mountain for you then."

The moment the words left Cyrus’s mouth, a soft chime echoed—sharp and unmistakable. Bubu’s screen flickered to life above them, casting a pale blue light that seemed far too judgmental for a system. The round, glassy screen hovered silently, no chirpy voice, no lecture—just an eerie stillness. Its menacing eyes stared down at Isabella with a blank expression that somehow managed to scream, I dare you.

Isabella’s lips twitched, a reluctant chuckle escaping as she folded her arms. "You’re mad at me, aren’t you?" she muttered under her breath only to her hearing. Her voice was low, playful, but her posture stiffened as if she were being watched by a disapproving parent. "I can’t even breathe wrong without you watching like that."

She glanced at Bubu from the corner of her eye—half-guilt, half-defiance—and then turned her attention to Cyrus. The bowl in his hand trembled slightly, a mix of warmth and concern radiating from his face.

"That’s such a sweet offer," she said finally, voice warm but firm. Her smile was tight—polite, almost mechanical. "But no. You can’t help me."

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