The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 104: I think… I think maybe she’s cursed

Opehlia stared down at Isabella, while she held the worried Glimora in her hands.

The little creature kept making those tiny distressed sounds, wriggling like it wanted to leap onto Isabella and fix everything with its tail or something. Opehlia hugged Glimora tighter, her own round face scrunched with fear as she stared at the woman buried in soaked furs, who hadn’t moved in what felt like forever.

"She’s not moving," Opehlia whispered, panicked. "She’s just sweating and breathing weird and--what if she dies?"

"She’s not dying," Shelia snapped, crouched at Isabella’s feet, arms crossed. Her tone was sharp, but her eyes hadn’t left Isabella’s pale face once. "People don’t die from sweat. Right?"

There was a long pause.

Luca, who had been standing awkwardly by the wall trying not to step on anything or knock over anything (the hut was NOT made for three adult-sized people and a tiny fluffy animal), cleared his throat. "I think... I think maybe she’s cursed."

Opehlia gasped. "Cursed?!"

Shelia gave him a glare so strong it could turn a wild boar to stone. "Luca. If you’re not going to help, shut up."

Luca’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He settled for slowly sinking to his knees, hands on his thighs, looking deeply ashamed for simply existing.

Opehlia sniffled and tried to wipe some sweat off Isabella’s forehead using the edge of her fur sleeve. "She’s burning. Like, really burning. Her skin is hot like fire! Maybe she cooked too much yesterday and her inside fire didn’t go down."

Shelia blinked. "Her... inside fire?"

"Yes! Maybe she used all her spirit power or... maybe her fire’s too strong!"

Shelia pinched the bridge of her nose. "That doesn’t make any sense."

"Neither does her being cursed!" Opehlia shot back, clearly frazzled.

Meanwhile, Luca was trying to remember everything he knew about fever. Which, to be fair, was just what his grandma used to do: wrap someone in leaves and chant weird things while blowing on their stomach. Should he try that? Maybe not. Shelia would probably throw him out.

"Can we pour water on her?" Opehlia asked suddenly.

"No," Shelia said immediately.

"Why not?"

"Because she already looks like she drowned in sweat. Water might kill her."

Luca gave her a look. "That... doesn’t sound like real logic."

"Do you have a better idea?"

"Leaves?" he offered.

"You and your leaves."

Opehlia sighed dramatically and looked at Isabella again. "She was fine yesterday. Teaching us how to make egg stew. Telling me I have meat-holding arms. Remember that?"

"She said your arms were strong," Luca corrected.

"She said I could carry meat like a goddess."

Shelia held up a hand. "No one is talking about meat arms right now."

"I just don’t get it," Opehlia whispered, touching Isabella’s arm gently. "Why didn’t she tell us she was this sick?"

"Because she didn’t want us to worry," Luca said, his voice oddly soft now. "She always acts like she’s fine. Even when she’s not."

Shelia let out a deep breath and rubbed the back of her neck. "Well, she’s not fine now."

Glimora let out a soft cooing sound, curling into Isabella’s chest with a sad little whimper.

"Maybe we should all go get help," Opehlia said quickly, eyes wide. "All three of us!"

"Who stays with her?" Shelia asked.

Opehlia deflated. "Right. Right. We stay. We stay forever."

Luca was looking at the wall again, like it had answers. "I can go. I can run."

Shelia stood abruptly. "No need."

They both looked at her.

"I already sent for Kian," Shelia said anxiously.

Meanwhile, Cyrus had been standing outside the entire time—silent, still, listening like a lonely stone statue.

Inside the hut, the voices rose and fell with emotion. Worry, panic, frantic pacing... and the occasional dramatic sniffle from Opehlia. But when Cyrus heard Kian’s name?

His jaw flexed. A slight twitch at the corner of his lips. His hand tightened around the small hide cloth he carried, meant to offer as an extra blanket.

Kian, huh?

He knew Kian did not like him, from the way he stared at him yesterday. Yet he did not care

And for Cyrus?, He didn’t particularly hate the man. He didn’t particularly like him either. It was simple—if Isabella didn’t hate Kian, then he didn’t hate Kian.

But that didn’t mean he liked the idea of Kian showing up either. Especially not now, not when Isabella was sick and clearly needed someone to hold her hand—preferably his hand, in his humble, quiet, respectful opinion.

The conversation inside shifted, and something in Cyrus clenched when he heard Shelia’s voice rise over the others. They were fussing over Isabella again. He wanted to barge in. Truly, he did. His feet shifted forward instinctively—

But then he remembered, they wouldn’t allow him inside.

Those three little brats had emotionally manipulated Cyrus into staying outside.

The audacity.

And the poor man, fell for it like a gullible newborn cub.

It had started earlier—right after he’d finished helping build a makeshift table by Isabella’s hut, and casually, as one does when they are deeply invested but hiding it, asked, "Can I check on her?"

Shelia had looked at him like he’d asked if he could lick the fire. "She doesn’t like strangers in her hut," she said flatly, arms crossed, not even blinking.

Cyrus had frowned. "I’m not a stranger."

Shelia didn’t miss a beat. "Be for real. You only got here yesterday. And don’t give me that I’m-her-brother bullshit."

Luca, ever the serious one, blinked once, then nodded solemnly like he’d just uncovered a major conspiracy. "I knew it. The whole story was a lie."

Then came the real stab—Opehlia, sweet round-faced Opehlia, gasped. Her hands clutched to her chest in betrayal, as she turned to Cyrus with shiny, hopeful eyes waiting for him to defend himself.

He... said nothing.

And just like that, her soul left her body.

She looked like someone had told her Glimora was a lizard in disguise. (If that happened, it’d be crazy (⁠ ⁠╹⁠▽⁠╹⁠ ⁠))

Opehlia’s big eyes filled with silent horror. She took three tiny steps back, dramatically whispering, "You took advantage of Isabella’s kindness."

And that was it. The betrayal council was complete.

Shelia had her soldiers. Luca stood in grim alliance. Opehlia swore she’d never trust again.

They made their final declaration: Cyrus could stand outside. But he could not go in.

Which is how he ended up here. Still. Mute. Dejected. Holding that stupid little hide blanket like a love-sick barbarian.

He was a whole grown beast man, feared by most of the forest, and here he was—denied entry like a rejected peddler.

He shifted his weight, staring hard at the door flap, willing it to open. His ears twitched as he picked up every sound—Opehlia’s panicked voice, Shelia’s sharp commands, the shuffle of Luca trying to find something useful to do without knocking something over.

He wanted to go in.

He really, really wanted to go in.

But instead, he stood outside like a cursed statue carved from shame and silence.

Inside, Isabella sneezed. It was small. Pitiful.

His heart cracked.

And yet...

He remained outside.

For now.