The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 238 - 239: So much for delicate and dignified

Isabella had decided to just go to sleep that night—and more importantly, she had decided not to talk to Bubu.

Yes. Silent treatment was in full swing.

And if anyone dared say that giving a system the silent treatment was childish, they could square up. Because after all the chaos, threats, and near-death experiences, Isabella felt completely justified in ignoring the snarky, unreliable thing floating invisibly in her head.

So when morning came, with the first golden sliver of sun sneaking through the hide-draped window cracks and the chirping of unfamiliar birds filling the air, Isabella cracked one eye open with a dramatic groan. Not a single "Bubu" was muttered. Not even a sigh of acknowledgement. She sat up with her hair pointing in seven different directions like a magical cactus and dragged herself out of bed like a woman who’d fought wars.

Still no "Bubu."

She walked out to the riverbank just behind the hut, clutching her chewing stick she had gotten used to as her makeshift toothbrush. The cold water bit at her skin, making her shiver, but it also helped wake her up. She crouched at the edge, scooping water onto her face and letting the ripples clear the remaining sleep from her eyes. The birds kept chirping. Glimora chased a bug near a tree. The world kept spinning.

But Bubu? Still ghosted.

She liked it that way.

Isabella scrubbed her teeth with her crushed charcoal paste which was now preety popular among the villagers. The moment it touched her gums, a cold sting zipped through her mouth — sharp, cool, and awakening. She hissed, not from pain, but from the icy jolt of mint, her mouth left tingling and sparklingly fresh. Her hair, still damp and tied in a lazy twist, clung to her neck as she stood and stretched, exhaling into the morning air like a minty dragon.

"Another day in beast-man territory," she muttered.

When she finally headed back the the palace she walked back inside the large, room that had been given to her and Opehlia temporarily, she noticed the bed across from hers was empty. She raised a brow at the rumpled sheets, then shrugged.

Typical Opehlia. Wandering off early to do whatever soft-hearted girls did at the crack of dawn. Probably talking to trees or feeding ducks.

"Hope she didn’t go chasing butterflies again," Isabella murmured as she brushed her hands against her cotton skirt and headed toward the middle of the room.

A moment later, the hide curtain was pushed open—and there stood Cyrus.

Like clockwork. Holding a tray of soup so fragrant the aroma practically grabbed her by the nose and pulled her forward. Next to it? Glimora’s meat—roasted to perfection, lightly charred, and dripping with savory juice. Her beast perked up from her corner and leapt into action before Cyrus even crossed the threshold.

"Thank you," Isabella said, surprised by how soft her own voice sounded. A rare, quiet kind of gratitude bubbled in her chest as she took the warm bowl from his hands.

Steam curled upward like wisps of morning fog, curling around her face as she blew gently and took her first sip.

The heat wrapped around her tongue instantly. The spices—mild and earthy—were perfect. The texture rich and thick. Her eyes softened.

She peeked at Cyrus, who, as always, stood still with the patience of a mountain, waiting like her culinary performance review was the only thing that mattered on the planet.

She gave him a bright grin and stuck out her thumb. "It’s good. As usual."

Cyrus finally relaxed, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow. His tense shoulders softened, and he moved to sit quietly on one of the uneven wooden stools carved from tree logs and arranged around the room.

Across from her, Glimora was devouring her meat with the intensity of a queen reclaiming her throne—completely unbothered, juices dripping from her chin, tail wagging with each bite.

Isabella raised a brow at the white fluff. "So much for delicate and dignified," she whispered with amusement before returning to her own food.

After a few more sips, she looked at Cyrus.

"You know, Cyrus," Isabella began between slow, deliberate bites, her voice slightly muffled from the heat of the soup. "Where I’m from, we have a lot more than just soup with meat and mushrooms in it—spices that sing, colors that dance, and flavors that bite."

Cyrus straightened before she even finished the sentence.

The transformation was almost comical. One second, he was slouched slightly, casual, quiet—and the next, his back was ramrod straight, hands folded neatly in his lap, and his full attention locked onto her like a predator tracking a flicker of movement in the grass. Except his eyes weren’t cold. They were warm, wide, waiting.

He looked at her the way someone might look at a star finally deciding to speak.

To him, maybe she was that star. A glowing, unpredictable, slightly terrifying celestial body that had crashed into his life and turned everything upside down.

There was a moment of hesitation. Just a beat where the silence stretched, and something unspoken flickered between them.

For a heartbeat, the question nearly rose to his lips—Where are you from, Isabella?

But he swallowed it down.

She had never ever told anyone. Not once. Not even in passing. It was a line she never let anyone cross. So he didn’t dare step over it, even if curiosity clawed at his insides like a trapped animal.

So instead of pressing, he nodded slowly, respectfully, and asked the safer question. His voice came out soft, almost reverent.

"What more do you have?"

Isabella looked up from her soup, the wooden spoon suspended mid-air. The steam wafted gently between them like a curtain of mist. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as though she were mentally flipping through a recipe book only she could see.

Her lips curved just slightly, as though the memories tasted better than anything in her bowl.

"We have rice, beans...