The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts
Chapter 185: I don’t like her either

Chapter 185: Chapter 185: I don’t like her either

Cyrus blinked, confused. His fingers curled around the edge of the bowl as if gripping it would somehow anchor him to her decision. "But—" he began, tone gentle, searching her face for some sliver of understanding.

"No, Cyrus." Isabella’s voice was sharper now, a clear line drawn in the sand. She stepped forward, took the stone bowl from his hands, and placed it back on the nearby slab with a solid thunk. The sound echoed slightly in the quiet space.

She turned to him, eyes steeled. "Stop caring. You have no right to care this much."

That landed harder than she expected. Cyrus didn’t flinch, but his shoulders dropped slightly, his head nodding once, slow and resigned. "Okay," he said quietly, the word barely above a whisper.

His eyes lingered on her face a moment longer before he looked away, his expression unreadable—but something was lost in his gaze. Disappointment maybe. Or something deeper.

Isabella didn’t look at him again. She couldn’t. Her jaw tightened and she swallowed, pushing down the twist in her chest. Instead, she latched onto the first distraction that came to mind.

"Zara," she said suddenly. Her voice broke the silence like a stone tossed into still water. "What kind of black magic was she under?"

Cyrus looked up instantly. Whatever sadness had dulled his expression was gone in an instant, replaced with focused curiosity. He stepped closer, tilting his head as if to listen more carefully.

"I couldn’t tell exactly," he replied, his brows furrowing slightly. "But I could sense it on her. Thick, like a fog. Her mind wasn’t hers when you saw her."

"She wanted to hurt me, didn’t she?" Isabella asked, not blinking.

"Yes," Cyrus confirmed. His voice dropped an octave, quiet but unshaking. "That’s why I stepped in. You should be careful around her. I don’t like her."

Isabella turned slightly at that. Her gaze was unfocused, her lips parting in thought. "I don’t like her either," she murmured, more to herself than to him. Her mind spun faster now, connecting dots and dark suspicions. Shelia’s name rose to her lips before she even realized she was thinking it.

"Sheila..." The name slipped out like a sigh, barely audible—but not quiet enough to escape Cyrus.

His eyes narrowed, expression tightening as he processed the connection in a blink. "You should sleep," he said suddenly, voice calm, but edged with certainty.

"What? Why?" Isabella’s head snapped toward him, confused by the sudden shift.

"It’s past midnight," he answered, almost too casually.

She glanced toward the open windows, then at the low-burning torches on the walls. He was right. Her body suddenly felt the ache of the day, the dull throb of overexertion creeping up her spine.

But she didn’t want to sleep—not yet. Not when the night was so quiet. Not when there were so many unanswered questions.

"I’ll help search the palace for Shelia," Cyrus said, stepping closer. He looked at her, completely unreadable, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to offer.

Isabella blinked.

She wasn’t even surprised anymore. Of course he knew. Of course he offered. What shocked her more was how easily he could read her.

"You’re right," she said at last, sighing. "I should sleep."

There was no fight in her tone this time. No sarcastic quip or attempt to convince him otherwise. Just quiet acceptance. She was too tired to argue, and even more tired of trying to convince Cyrus not to help.

As she walked away, her voice dropped low again. "You should stop being so helpful," she muttered under her breath, not turning to see if he heard.

She stepped lightly over Opehlia’s stretched-out legs and nestled into the far edge of the room beside Glimora, careful not to disturb them.

"It might hurt you in the future," she said finally, voice soft but heavy with meaning, before she turned her back to him, pulling the thin blanket up to her chin and closing her eyes.

She didn’t sleep. Not really.

But she stayed still.

Isabella didn’t hear any footsteps—no shift of the hide curtain, no shift of weight across the stone floor. Nothing that suggested Cyrus had actually left the room. She lay there with her back to him, one eye barely cracked open, confirming what she already suspected: he was still there.

She let out a long, weary sigh. ’He’s waiting for me to fall asleep like I’m some helpless princess’, she thought with a scoff. Then, lowering her lashes again, she called out silently in her mind. Pssst, Bubu...

Immediately, a soft ping vibrated through her skull, and the screen lit up in the corner of her vision—bright, blue, and silently judging her.

"Yes, User," Bubu responded, its voice monotone and unmistakably cold.

Isabella winced. That tone again... Her brows twitched together in mild irritation. How can a system even have an attitude?

She rolled onto her side and answered mentally, Tsk. Prepare a series of cultivation and combat tasks—something with bite. And don’t even think of revealing them until I’ve finished the pending ones.

She paused, then added, Also, start compiling group drills. I might need to train a whole village later.

For a second, Bubu’s screen froze. Then, with a burst of digital confetti and an overexcited flicker, it squealed, "Now that’s the spirit, baby!"

Isabella snapped her eyes open and groaned out loud, one hand dragging across her face. "Shut up, Bubu. I’m trying to sleep," she hissed, glancing toward the sleeping forms of Ophelia and Glimora to make sure they hadn’t stirred.

"Alright, my bad," Bubu said meekly, and the screen vanished with a soft flick.

Silence returned to the room—but not peace.

Across the space, Cyrus sat quietly, half-hidden in the shadows of the far corner. His back was straight, his eyes fixed on Isabella’s unmoving form. He watched the subtle rise and fall of her breathing, the way her fingers curled slightly under the thin blanket.

She wasn’t asleep. Not yet.

He could tell.

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