The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts
Chapter 189 - 190: You’re the key!

Chapter 189: Chapter 190: You’re the key!

Was that amusement in his eyes?

She looked around to change the subject—tch, distractions, please—and her brow furrowed. There was a gap. A missing person.

"Wait. Where’s Ophelia?" Isabella asked, frowning, scanning the immediate area as if the woman might be tucked behind the animal skins.

"She got up early to have her bath," Cyrus said calmly, like they were discussing cloud patterns.

"Oh that little—" Isabella’s whole face twitched. "I hope the soap is safe."

She leapt to her feet, muttering under her breath like an anxious goblin, then turned back sharply to Cyrus.

"Stand outside for a moment, will you?" she asked.

He gave a single nod like some solemn jungle monk, got up without a word, and walked out as quietly as he’d arrived.

Once the door shut behind him, Isabella whipped around like a raccoon about to raid the fridge. She dropped to her knees by her bedroll and counted quickly—"One, two, three... thirteen!"—her voice went up an octave with glee.

Her eyes caught the orbs—thirteen sparkling, glittering spheres—arranged neatly in a perfect straight line against the wall, like magic Easter eggs meticulously laid out by some very precise, very obsessed divine hamster.

Her eyes gleamed like a hoarder who’d just found buried treasure.

"Heh." She grinned. "I might not even use them all by the time Glimora starts pooping more."

She carefully transferred them all into her space with the reverence of someone handling dragon eggs. Then with a little hop, she slung Glimora under one arm like a potato bag of mischief and marched to the entrance.

She pushed the hide curtain open—

And there he was.

Cyrus, still waiting, like some obedient pet snake. His long limbs were relaxed, hands behind his back, eyes still as patient as before.

She gave him a chipper smile. "The women are probably waiting for me at my hut."

Then she turned without another glance. "Come along," she said, voice breezy, as if she wasn’t carrying a magical beast sack and carting around glowing wish bombs in her space.

She didn’t look back.

But if she had... she’d have caught the tiniest smirk twitching at the corner of Cyrus’s lips.

...

Isabella might sometimes get labeled as mean, selfish, or, as the village gossip often put it, "always full of herself"—but honestly? She didn’t care. Why should she? She owned the spotlight like a queen owns her throne. The kind of woman who not only thrived on being the center of attention but was downright gleeful when it came to teaching others how to get there, too.

Especially when it came to helping her fellow women. Oh yes. That was her secret joy. She lived for those moments when she could see a spark of hope light up in their eyes, knowing full well she’d carved a better path for them just by existing. She was like some weird benevolent goddess of ambition, planting seeds of confidence and watching the jungle grow greener with her influence.

A smug smile tugged at her lips as she thought about the future she was shaping. The future where she was the star, the guide, the unstoppable force.

And then—snap—she remembered the reason why, in the eyes of many, she was also a bit of a pain in the tail.

Her own perfect legs.

As she walked toward her hut, the familiar sound of her slippers slapped against the dirt path, a crisp clack-clack that echoed through the village. It wasn’t just any sound—it was the sound that the villagers whispered about whenever she passed by, like she was some kind of supernatural phenomenon.

But of course, none of them ever dared to come up and ask her about it out loud.

Not with Isabella’s personality stamped on her like a warning sign.

Sometimes, as she heard the soft murmur of the villagers’ envy and awe, she felt a tiny flicker of guilt. Why her? Why did she get to have legs like those, sculpted and toned and perfect while the rest of the beast people shuffled around with knees that looked like twisted vines and ankles like gnarly roots?

Sigh.

The beast people of this world were pitiful, she mused, sinking deeper into the jungle of her own thoughts. Honestly, it was a damn shame she was only one person. If she could clone herself—oh, the wonders she could work! A whole army of Isabellas, spreading fabulousness and changing lives at twice the speed.

But then—ping!—a thought struck her like a thunderbolt. She whipped around, eyes sparkling like jungle fireflies as she stared at Cyrus.

He was watching her with that calm, composed expression—half confused, half amused. Not that he minded the sudden attention. Far from it. He was used to it, in his own quiet way. But it was a little strange seeing her look so... excited.

Was she about to ask him to offer his tail for her to sit on? Because, you know, Cyrus would always do that.

"Are your legs tired?" Cyrus asked softly, his pink eyes glowing with care and just a hint of expectance in them—as if he was already imagining Isabella perching on his tail like some regal jungle queen.

Isabella shook her head vigorously, waving a finger. "Tsk, no, Cyrus. You’re the key!"

Cyrus blinked. "The key?"

Isabella held up her hand dramatically, but Cyrus’s eyes darted to it like it was a strange insect. Without context, she probably looked like she’d lost her marbles.

"Yes! The key to everything!" Isabella declared, her voice ringing with the certainty of a prophet. The truth was, though? Her brain had already zoomed miles ahead, constructing some grand plan that she hadn’t yet bothered to explain.

"Mmh," Cyrus murmured, giving a small, knowing nod when he realized she wasn’t really looking at him anymore. She was lost in that glittering daydream place again.

He didn’t mind. Honestly, he was kind of captivated. There was something mesmerizing about the way her blonde hair caught the dappled sunlight filtering through the jungle canopy, turning her locks into silky rivers of gold. Her pink lips parted slightly—as if she were gasping at some unseen, wondrous revelation.

Her blue eyes shimmered and then dimmed in the seconds before—

Snrk.

Glimora’s pretty white tail slid smoothly under Isabella’s nose, rubbing in one languid, teasing motion.

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