The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts
Chapter 195 - 196: Love, try to go slow on the woman beater, alright?

Chapter 195: Chapter 196: Love, try to go slow on the woman beater, alright?

"Wooh," Isabella breathed out, still smiling, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Okay, okay... I’ve forgotten what I was about to say."

Her gaze sharpened, now laced with challenge.

"Oh, but yes—why did you come to my hut to disturb me if you hate me so much?"

Her fingers toyed absentmindedly with the soap, swirling the suds in lazy circles, her eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to glee.

"He didn’t know you were around," Opehlia’s soft voice broke through the tension, barely above a whisper.

All eyes snapped toward her, the room holding its breath.

Isabella’s brows lifted in surprise, then narrowed in amusement as she shot Gerwin a pointed glance before turning fully to Opehlia.

Oh, this just got interesting.

"Well, Opehlia dear," Isabella cooed, voice silk over steel, "you wouldn’t mind continuing, right? Since Gerwin here refuses to talk."

Gerwin growled, his voice thick with fury, "You wouldn’t dare—"

CRACK.

A sickening snap echoed through the air.

"Ahhhh!" Gerwin screamed, body jerking violently as Cyrus’s tail tightened again.

Isabella turned to Cyrus with a mock reproach, voice low and teasing.

"Love, try to go slow on the woman beater, alright? I have a lot planned for him."

Cyrus responded with that familiar small, sweet smile—eyes gentle but steady—and a single, deliberate nod.

If Isabella didn’t know Cyrus so well, if this weren’t happening right now, she might have thought he’d just fallen head over heels for her on the spot.

She looked back at Opehlia, whose body tensed and flinched at the man’s scream.

"Go on, Opehlia," Isabella coaxed softly, voice smooth as velvet. "Don’t be scared. He can’t get you."

"He came to ask for some soap—for Alena," Opehlia said, her voice trembling just slightly as she tried to steady herself, the words tasting bitter on her tongue.

Isabella’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing sharply with interest. "Alena? Who’s Alena?" she cut in, voice sharp and curious, the air around her suddenly charged.

Opehlia’s lips pressed into a thin line, her tone even but slow, like she was carefully threading the pieces together in her mind. "The woman he’s been pursuing."

Isabella’s brows shot high, a slow, knowing smile curling the edges of her lips. It clicked. Perfect sense now. So this bastard had come to her hut—completely unaware she was there—just to beg for soap for the very woman he was trying to win over.

A cruel twist that made Gerwin’s face darken with rage. He had tried to twist Opehlia with words first, like some cheap conman, but when that failed, his patience snapped—so he started hitting her.

And luck had favored Opehlia that day, because Isabella had been right there to see everything.

"I told him I couldn’t give him anything—that he had to come to you," Opehlia continued, swallowing hard, a flicker of pride breaking through her fear. "But he got annoyed... said Alena needed it desperately."

"And when you refused," Isabella interrupted smoothly, stepping closer with a knowing smile, "he hit you, didn’t he?"

Opehlia froze. Her eyes flickered down, then slowly met Isabella’s gaze again. After a long, tense pause, she nodded.

Isabella’s smile softened, genuine now, warm with approval. She reached out, resting a steady hand on Opehlia’s shoulder. "I’m proud of you," she said quietly. "Because I know the old Opehlia would’ve given in, would’ve been manipulated. But this..." Her fingers squeezed gently. "This is standing your ground."

Gerwin’s jaw clenched so hard it looked like his teeth might shatter. He must have been stunned when Opehlia said no. No words, no begging, no flattery. Just a firm refusal.

And then, predictably, he resorted to violence.

Thinking that when words failed, actions would get the job done—like they always did.

Isabella turned to face Gerwin fully, her smile bright and sharp like a blade.

"Wow," she said with slow, deliberate venom, "even the Alena you’re trying to please won’t be here to see you suffer today."

A chill ran down Gerwin’s spine, eyes flickering with unease, but he forced his face back into a mask of rage.

Isabella’s hand fell from Opehlia’s shoulder as she pivoted toward the circle of women gathered around them—eyes still wide, still attentive.

"If I might ask why none of you stepped in earlier," she said, voice loud enough to fill the quiet, "it’s because this man has bullied, if not every one of you, then most of you."

Several women nodded, faces a mixture of relief and shame.

"Good," Isabella said, stepping forward, eyes scanning the faces. "I have some questions."

She raised a hand, palm open and steady. "If this man has ever made any of you feel bad about yourselves—if he’s ever torn you down with words or actions—please show me by raising your hand."

In an instant, nearly every woman lifted a trembling hand, some with tears shimmering in their eyes.

Isabella’s lips curled into a tight smile, not from happiness, but from irritation and disgust at the ugly truth.

She lifted her hand again. "If he has ever physically abused you, or tried to," she said, voice low but fierce, "please signify."

About half the hands went up.

Her smile grew wider, colder—not a smile of joy, but of steely resolve, fueled by the bitter knowledge that such cruelty had gone unchecked for far too long.

Possible explanations swirled in Isabella’s mind as she surveyed the gathered women, their eyes heavy with quiet suffering. Maybe the men these women were mated to were just too weak—too scared—to stand up to Gerwin. But she doubted that. That theory barely held water. Or maybe he’d threatened them into silence, tightened his grip on their lives with fear like a poisonous vine, choking any chance of resistance.

Or maybe it was both. Maybe Gerwin didn’t walk alone—maybe he had an entire crew lurking in the shadows, waiting to enforce his will whenever he pleased.

Isabella didn’t give a single damn about the reasons. None of that mattered.

The only thing that mattered was him—that arrogant, violent man who had dared to storm into her morning peace and leave a trail of bruises on Opehlia.

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