The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 170: Sleepy. Perfect. That means it’s working

Chapter 170: Chapter 170: Sleepy. Perfect. That means it’s working

She stared for a beat.

Then gave the faintest nod.

"You didn’t mess anything up. You lifted without grunting like a dying goat. And you only scratched your head once, which is frankly a miracle in this company." Her voice dropped an octave, cool and final. "You stay."

Then, without looking back, she added, "And... Chewer. You stay too."

Everyone gawked.

Even Luca blinked.

Isabella finally smiled—mischievous, sharp. "If I’m forced to have someone guarding my soap in the middle of the night, I’d rather have someone who looks too lazy to poke around and too busy chewing to gossip."

The flexer and the ghost of a man were quietly excused with a flick of her fingers.

And just as the two chosen ones exchanged glances, likely unsure if they’d been complimented or cursed, Ophelia piped up cheerfully—

"Oh! Kian also said he’ll be coming over later to see the soap before you distribute it to the village!"

"Kian," Isabella muttered under her breath, like the name had a weight to it she wasn’t sure she wanted to carry right now. Her voice was light, almost teasing, but her eyes sharpened slightly, lips pressing into a thoughtful line for a split second before she caught herself.

Then, just as quickly, she turned to Ophelia with a smile so radiant it could’ve lit a cavern. "Ophelia, I forgot to ask—you never told me how you felt after using the soap," she said, reaching out and smoothing a wild curl away from the younger woman’s face, tucking it behind her ear with the ease of an older sister.

"I mean, I can see it all over you—your skin’s practically glowing, you look like someone kissed by moonlight and joy, but I want to hear it. The details. Tell me everything."

Ophelia grinned, teeth white against her sun-darkened skin, eyes round and guileless. "Well, I feel clean!" she chirped, her voice soft but tinged with pride. "Refreshed and oh, I’ve never felt like sleeping so much but—"

That was all Isabella needed. She didn’t let her finish.

"There it is," Isabella interjected with a nod of satisfaction. She gently patted Ophelia’s cheek like she’d just confirmed a theory she’d written in the dirt. "Sleepy. Perfect. That means it’s working."

Ophelia blinked, her brow furrowing. "Huh?"

"Well, since you feel so sleepy," Isabella said sweetly, clapping her hands once, "you should head to the palace."

"What?" Ophelia pouted, confused. "But I was going to—"

"Don’t tell me," Isabella interrupted, holding up a finger, "that you plan on squeezing yourself into this tiny hut with four pots taller than you. And knowing you, you’ll roll over and kick one into next week."

Her expression turned judgmental, one perfectly sculpted brow arching high in mock disapproval. She gestured vaguely toward the cluttered interior behind her—big clay pots lined the wall like silent sentinels, space scarce between them. There was barely enough room for a squirrel to sleep, let alone a whole bouncing Ophelia.

"We won’t be staying here tonight," Isabella explained smoothly. "So go to my room at the palace. I’ll join you later."

Ophelia took a beat before she nodded with an exaggerated "Ohhh," like it all suddenly clicked into place. "Okay! Should I bring anything?"

"No. Just your limbs and your breath. And if you see Cyrus," Isabella added casually, though her tone grew slightly musing, "tell him to wait for me."

She didn’t bother hiding the flicker of curiosity that crossed her face. That snake. He had a habit of disappearing exactly when she hadn’t asked him to—but only to pop up later with problems mysteriously solved or supplies quietly delivered.

Annoying. Endearing. Suspicious. Typical.

Lately, his absences had been longer, and though she’d pretended not to care, she’d been keeping track. Not because she was worried. Obviously. She just didn’t like not knowing what people did under her name.

Still, she had nothing that needed doing at the moment—no fires to put out, no enemies to spy on, no schemes to untangle—so what, exactly, was Cyrus up to?

She shook her head, dismissing the thought. It probably didn’t concern her.

Probably.

She only hoped to see him at the palace later, if only to shove that Kalahari herb into his hand before he wore himself down again. She’d been saving it, stubbornly so, promising herself she’d give it to him once he stopped playing the mysterious guardian spirit of her life.

"Yes ma’am!" Ophelia chirped, snapping her out of her thoughts.

Isabella blinked, then smiled, swatting the girl playfully on the shoulder. "Go on. Before you fall asleep standing."

Ophelia giggled and darted off, her footsteps light, vanishing down the dusk-colored path like a cloud bouncing away.

Turning back, Isabella reached for a small sealed gourd nestled beside the tools. She held it out toward Luca, who had been quietly watching, arms crossed and smirking faintly like he was in on a joke she didn’t know she was telling.

"Here," she said, placing it firmly in his palm. "Your soap. Should last a while if you’re not greedy."

Luca’s brows rose. "Thanks."

Isabella’s voice turned sharp. "And don’t be like Ophelia. If I find out you wasted it playing bubble war in the stream, I’ll personally chase you with a stick."

There was a long pause.

Then she smiled, too sweetly. "And I’m being serious. Because unlike Ophelia, I don’t have a soft spot for you."

Luca chuckled and gave a mock salute before walking off, gourd in hand, muttering something about how terrifying she was when she smiled.

She watched him go for a moment, hands on her hips. The wind had started to pick up slightly, rustling the edges of her woven tunic and fluttering the leaves overhead. The air was cooling fast. Daylight was bleeding away into a soft violet dusk. The forest around her hut creaked and chirped with the onset of night, but she had no plans of lingering—

Not until she heard the steady crunch of footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Intentional.

She turned.

And there, walking through the last band of sunlight like a scene carved out of dream and shadow, was Kian.