The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts
Chapter 192 - 193: Don’t you dare ignore me, woman!

Chapter 192: Chapter 193: Don’t you dare ignore me, woman!

The man’s jaw clenched. She could practically hear his ego cracking.

"Bee sap for the gourds," Cyrus replied smoothly. His voice was low, but there was an edge to it. The kind of cold calm that promised violence if needed. His pink eyes glinted like hot coals in a cold fireplace.

"Luca, take it in and bring me a little more soap," Isabella said without even sparing a glance at the man. Her tone was so casual it might as well have been about the weather.

But the message was clear.

You are irrelevant.

And judging by the way the man’s fists shook at his side, he got it.

Luca strolled over like he had all the time in the world, grabbing the pot from Cyrus with a nod. No words. No fuss. Just a quiet exchange like two market men swapping spices—except this wasn’t a spice deal, it was a boiling pot of tension barely masked under calm movements.

He disappeared into the hut with the pot, the hide curtain fluttering in his wake.

The women in the crowd all glanced at each other, brows furrowed, lips parted—confused. Some exchanged nervous murmurs, others tried to peek over each other’s shoulders, hoping to catch a whiff of what was happening.

Why was Isabella so quiet?

The woman known for chewing people out with her words like a blade was now... serene? No eye-twitching, no venom-laced sarcasm, no "I’ll-feed-you-to-a-ravenous-lion" look?

Was she sick?

Had her mind snapped?

The man—smug and thick-skinned like a stubborn boar—took her silence as submission. A smug grin spread across his chapped lips like oil over a fire. He puffed out his chest, standing a little taller, as if her quiet meant he had finally broken her spirit.

He couldn’t be more wrong.

Isabella’s gaze dropped to Opehlia, still curled pathetically on the dusty ground, her tear-streaked face blotchy and red. Her shoulders trembled, lips bitten raw from the effort of not sobbing too loud.

And for a split second, Isabella felt it—a searing pang of shame. Not for Opehlia.

But because of her.

Because how could Opehlia let herself get reduced to this?

Isabella’s jaw clenched. If they weren’t surrounded by thirty pairs of eyes, she might’ve dragged Opehlia by the ear into a quiet corner and given her a thorough beating—not out of cruelty, but correction. A reminder. This was not who Opehlia was supposed to be anymore. This was not the girl she had been teaching.

Just then, the curtain flapped open and Luca returned, carrying the clay bowl filled with the creamy soap mixture. He didn’t say a word, just held it out like he was offering her a cup of morning tea. Isabella barely looked at him, but her lips twitched slightly—a side-smile blooming like a poisonous flower.

She stepped forward, her feet quiet on the ground, her hips swaying with a deceptive grace that unsettled the watching women. She didn’t look at the man, didn’t even spare him a breath. Instead, she knelt beside Opehlia and gently set the bowl down.

"Don’t you dare ignore me, woman!" the man barked.

His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, a touch too high-pitched to be taken seriously. He lunged—at least he tried to—but the sound that followed froze him mid-step.

CRACK.

Cyrus’s foot hit the ground like a war drum. His leg lengthened, skin splitting apart like molting cloth as massive red scales shimmered into view. The limb twisted, coiled, and within seconds, a thick serpent’s tail slammed into the earth beside him—glossy, dangerous, and humming with raw power.

Gasps shot through the crowd like arrows. Women stumbled back. Someone squeaked. A child hiding behind his mother’s leg burst into tears.

Even the wind stopped.

Everyone turned toward the beastman whose transformation had been as smooth as it was terrifying—everyone except Isabella. She hadn’t moved a muscle. Her expression hadn’t changed. As if a monster hadn’t just emerged in front of her.

But the man?

His soul nearly left his body.

"W-What do you mean by this?!" he squealed, stumbling backward, eyes darting from the massive tail to the cold fire in Cyrus’s pink eyes.

He couldn’t look away.

"You can’t do anything to me!" he shrieked, tone switching from arrogant to desperate in under a second. "You don’t even belong here! If a monster like you harms me, the king will surely have you removed!"

There it was.

Manipulation.

The weak man’s final card. A desperate play by someone who knew he’d already lost the game.

Isabella’s smile widened. It was small, sweet, but carried venom sharp enough to stop a lion’s heart. She still hadn’t spoken to the man. Still hadn’t acknowledged him. Her silence was louder than a thousand insults.

Her gaze slid back to Opehlia, still crouched on the ground like a broken doll. Isabella’s nostrils flared.

Disappointment. Anger. A flicker of pity.

She wasn’t expecting Opehlia to fight back like a warrior—but to cower like this? To let herself be walked over like cheap cloth? It was disgraceful.

Had she learned nothing from their last encounter with this brute? Had she forgotten everything?

But then Isabella noticed it—the way Opehlia’s fists clenched against the dirt. The way her shoulders had stopped shaking.

Not broken.

Just... shamed.

Humiliated.

And maybe, just maybe, angry enough now to grow from it.

Isabella finally lifted her eyes to Cyrus.

He was already watching her.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t have to.

He could always read her.

There was no nod. No command. Just a smile—a soft one, closed-lipped, like a mother finally giving her child permission to punch the school bully.

And Cyrus moved.

His serpent tail snapped through the air. Not with violence, not with bloodlust. Just precision.

WHOOSH.

It coiled around the man’s torso in one clean sweep, knocking the wind from his lungs. His arms were pinned to his sides, legs kicking, mouth gasping like a fish out of water.

It didn’t crush.

Not yet.

Just restrained.

Tightly. Firmly.

Dominantly.

Gasps erupted again. Some of the women stepped back. A few of them—those who’d been mistreated by the same man in quieter ways—grinned.

For once, they didn’t have to lower their heads and accept it.

For once, someone had snapped back.

And the one who ordered it?

Hadn’t raised a single finger.

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