The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts
Chapter 190 - 191: Too much food

Chapter 190: Chapter 191: Too much food

The sudden tickle snapped Isabella right out of her daze.

She blinked, startled, and looked down to see Glimora’s fluffy white butt cheek strategically facing her again, perfectly displayed and almost defiant in its grace.

Isabella could tell with every hair on her eyelashes that this wasn’t an accident. No way. Glimora did that on purpose.

The way the beast sat so gracefully in her arms—stretched out, tail flicking like a furry flag of mischief—was a declaration.

And it was hilarious.

"You know, sometimes you behave like a cat, just so so—"

Isabella should have shut up. She really, really should have shut up. Because no sooner had the words left her mouth than Glimora, the angelic, mystical, supposedly divine creature in her arms, stretched lazily like a royal house cat... then tilted her dainty little behind up in perfect aim—right at Isabella’s unsuspecting face.

And then, with the grace of a well-timed curse from a vengeful spirit, Glimora let loose.

A long, loud, echoing fart.

Right at Isabella’s mouth.

Isabella froze.

It was a sound that should not have come from something that pretty. That dainty. That... deceptively evil.

And if that wasn’t enough emotional damage, Glimora, the little traitor, turned her head—actually turned her head—and gave Isabella a slow, sly, smirking side-eye. As if to say, "Yes. I did that. And I’d do it again."

Then, the little monster curled up perfectly in Isabella’s arms, like she hadn’t just unleashed the gates of sulfur and death.

Isabella blinked.

Cyrus, standing nearby, tried—really tried—not to laugh. His cheeks twitched. His shoulders quivered. His hand slapped over his mouth like a desperate dam holding back a flood.

But then a small snort escaped. And it was all over.

He laughed. A warm, melodic sound that probably cured fevers and attracted butterflies in the wild. But at that moment? Isabella wasn’t hearing angels. She was hearing suffering. Because Glimora’s fart... stank.

It wasn’t just bad.

It was legendary.

Like burnt eggs wrapped in sin. Like something had died, fermented, come back to life, and eaten garbage—then died again. Isabella’s eyes began to water.

She stared up at Cyrus with a blank, hollow expression. Her life was flashing before her eyes.

Sure, his laugh was nice—melodic, charming, unfairly attractive—but how could she enjoy that when Glimora, the glittering bundle of demonic gas, had just violated her personal space so profoundly?

In fact, Isabella was starting to have serious doubts. Was Glimora actually a mystical beast? Or had she unknowingly adopted a tiny fart demon disguised in glitter and fluff?

The moment Isabella looked up at him, Cyrus’s laughter died. He quickly rearranged his features into his usual sweet, innocent expression. A picture of kindness and concern, as if he hadn’t just watched her soul get annihilated.

"Here," Isabella said flatly, no emotion, no warmth—just sheer resignation—as she held Glimora out to him like an offering to the gods.

Glimora, sensing betrayal, clung tighter, wrapping her fluffy little arms around Isabella’s wrist like a child being dragged to daycare.

But Isabella was not moved. Her glare was enough to scorch earth.

With the reluctant surrender of someone who knew she had overplayed her hand (or, rather, her butt), Glimora released her grip. It looked like a pout. A fluffy, fart-producing pout.

"Too much food," Isabella said dryly.

At first, Glimora didn’t understand. But then... it clicked.

Her blue eyes widened. Her tail froze mid-swish.

Mama... was blaming her diet.

And worse—was Mama going to reduce her portions?! The horror! The tragedy!

A spark of panic lit in Glimora’s eyes. She twisted in Cyrus’s arms and tried to lunge back toward Isabella, tiny limbs scrabbling dramatically like a child begging for one last sweet.

But Isabella was done. She turned, spun even, with the flair of a betrayed queen walking away from her kingdom. No backward glance. No forgiveness.

Glimora let out a tiny, betrayed squeak.

Cyrus chuckled again, soft and fond. "Like owner, like beast," he said under his breath, hugging Glimora to calm her down.

The poor thing now had watery eyes. A literal picture of regret and impending dietary doom.

"Don’t worry," Cyrus murmured gently, stroking her ears, "she won’t stop feeding you."

Then he followed after Isabella, who was already striding ahead, exuding the righteous fury of someone who had been crop-dusted by her own child.

"Just... don’t do that next time," he added, his voice kind. His expression? Not matching at all—he was still grinning like he’d just witnessed a divine comedy.

By the time they neared Isabella’s hut, the scene ahead made her pause.

Women.

Lots of them.

More than she expected.

Apparently, the message had gotten out. And now the space in front of her hut looked like a mini festival—colorful hide dresses, chatter, and at least one woman aggressively trying to push to the front with a hallowed out gourd in hand.

Isabella blinked in mild awe. "Oh... I guess we’re all excited for the day, ladies!" she said, her voice turning sugary and fake as she pasted on a customer-service-level smile.

The crowd of women parted with surprising discipline, clearing a path like she was a high priestess and this was some sacred event.

What Isabella didn’t notice was the wave of flirtatious looks being tossed toward Cyrus like they were petals on the wind. A wink here, a flipped braid there.

Sure, the man was still a terrifying mystery to most of the village. But after word spread that he had helped design the communal well—and that he hadn’t murdered anyone since he arrived—he was becoming something of a celebrity. An eye candy with danger vibes.

Too bad he didn’t even notice. His eyes were still on Glimora, gently scolding her with little murmurs, while the women swooned in silence.

Isabella pushed aside her hide curtain ignoring the men still guarding her entrance and stepped in, giving a satisfied nod at the setup inside.

The large clay pots were still perfectly covered, and the neatly stacked gourds were placed just where she’d left them, their matching covers resting beside them like obedient little caps.

"Tsk. Where is—"

"I’m here, I’m here!" Luca shouted, panting, as he shoved the hide curtain aside and came barreling into the hut.

...

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