The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts
Chapter 194 - 195: Don’t tell me… you don’t even know his name?

Chapter 194: Chapter 195: Don’t tell me... you don’t even know his name?

Isabella blinked. She stared at her for a beat too long.

Her fingers twitched at her side. Goddess give her strength—she wanted to pull out her own hair. She knew Opehlia was sweet. Soft-spoken. Gentle. But this? This level of kindness had officially gone off the rails.

Was it a curse? Was Ophelia’s heart made of cotton and rainwater?

A man had humiliated her. Repeatedly. Left her on the floor like a discarded cloth—and she still looked at him with watery eyes?

No. No, Isabella wouldn’t lose her temper. Not yet.

She crouched ever so slightly, voice honey-sweet, "Opehlia, love, would you mind telling me the name of this barbaric man?"

Her words were gentle, but her eyes—those sharp blue eyes—were anything but. They pinned Opehlia in place, glinting like ice under moonlight.

Opehlia blinked, confused, mouth parted. "H-his name?" she echoed, unsure if she’d heard right.

Why wasn’t Isabella raking her nails across the man’s face? Why wasn’t she commanding Cyrus to squeeze harder? It almost felt like... she was playing. Delaying. Taking her time to enjoy the man’s suffering.

Isabella placed a hand dramatically over her chest, lips parted in mock surprise. "Don’t tell me... you don’t even know his name?"

The way she said it, half-gasping, nearly theatrical, would have been funny—if the air around them weren’t so suffocating. The tension was tangible, hanging like a storm about to split the sky.

Opehlia scrambled, face flushing as she shook her head. "Oh no, no—I know his name!" she blurted, then swallowed. "His name is... Gerwin."

She looked down immediately, as if ashamed to even say it aloud.

Isabella tilted her head, then let out a light, airy giggle. "Damn, boo. Even your name is ugly."

A few women in the back snorted. One covered her mouth, poorly hiding a smirk. The laughter was brief, but it told Isabella all she needed to know. She wasn’t the only one who despised this man.

That single thought deepened the shadows in her mind. Just because women in this world could mate with multiple males didn’t mean they were safe. It didn’t mean they weren’t harassed or hit by others who felt more powerful than their bonded ones.

In fact, who said all mates cherished their women? How many smiled in public and struck them behind closed doors?

A woman beater in this era? In her world?

Well, not for long.

Thank the stars she’d arrived when she did. Because now? Now she could start correcting things. Nipping it in the bud. With style.

"My mother gave me that name, you witch!" the man suddenly screamed, voice sharp with fury. His body writhed within the hold of Cyrus’s tail, another sickening crack echoing through the open space.

Isabella’s lips curled. Her eyes glittered with delighted amusement.

"Well then, your mother has bad taste," she said, voice bright, chipper even.

Then her tone dipped, smooth as velvet. "But then again, interesting choice of words... why witch?" she asked, turning gracefully.

She walked over to Luca, her steps unhurried, calm as a queen gliding through her garden.

Luca, still stiff with confusion, wordlessly held out the soap like a soldier presenting a sword.

Isabella took it gently from his hands.

"Thank you," she whispered, offering him a small smile over her shoulder before turning back to Gerwin.

Gerwin scoffed, his nostrils flaring as he glared at Isabella, who stood with the clay bowl cradled in one hand and the soap swirling between her fingers like a child with a new toy. His chest heaved with stubborn defiance, but the flicker of fear was unmistakable in his eyes—sharp, wild, desperate.

"Everyone knows you’re a witch," he spat, voice rough, coated with venom.

Isabella’s head tilted slightly, curiosity lighting her cobalt eyes like flickering flames. It was an invitation. Go on, her gaze seemed to say.

"You bewitched the king with your beauty," Gerwin continued, teeth clenched tight as if biting back the urge to curse louder, "and slithered your way into this village like some venomous serpent. You spout knowledge no woman should possess—unnatural, arrogant, dangerous. Women like you weren’t meant to speak like the wise or walk like queens. You should’ve known your place before opening that cursed mouth."

His words hung in the air like a thick fog. Silence settled—a fragile stillness, pregnant with tension.

Then, unexpectedly, a low chuckle escaped Isabella’s lips.

"Ha."

Her laugh was soft, almost a whisper. Then another.

"Ha ha."

The sound blossomed, first from Isabella alone, then rippling through the gathered crowd until it erupted into a full-throated chorus of laughter.

"Ha ha ha ha!"

Women’s faces lit up with mirth—some clutching their sides, others wiping tears from their eyes. Even the stoic stone-faced guards felt their lips twitch into reluctant smiles. The tension cracked and broke like fragile glass.

Isabella raised a hand, halting the raucous laughter. Her chest heaved, breath catching as she tried to steady herself, eyes sparkling with mischievous fire.

"You all heard him say..." she began, voice ringing clear and bright.

"You all heard him say..."

She paused, brow arching sharply, a sly smirk tugging at her lips.

"He said—no woman should have that kind of knowledge."

The crowd roared anew, louder this time. A woman doubled over, clutching her stomach as she gasped for air between fits of laughter. Others slapped their thighs, their mirth infectious.

Isabella raised her voice, playful and sharp.

"He said no woman should have knowledge—like he’s ever met one who didn’t outsmart him."

More laughter burst forth, the crowd’s energy rippling like waves.

"And what was that bit about walking like a queen?" Isabella spun slowly on the balls of her feet, her skirts swirling as she threw a pointed look over her shoulder. "Gods, man, are you really watching how I walk?"

Her gaze landed on Gerwin, who now glared back with such venom, such barely contained rage, that Isabella could swear Cyrus’s tail tightened just by proxy. If released, that man would tear her apart limb by limb.