The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 132: What is that sweet scent?

Cyrus’ frown deepened further, as if her question only confirmed his suspicions. "You’re still very weak. I cannot let you walk around."

Isabella’s breath caught, the words catching her off guard. His tone wasn’t harsh, but there was something in it—something genuine. He was concerned.

He was concerned for her. The thought lingered in her mind, unfamiliar and unsettling. She hadn’t expected that from him. Her heart fluttered at that.

But then, just as quickly, the irritation flared again. How dare he act as if he could tell her what to do? She wasn’t some fragile thing that needed babysitting.

She had her own life to lead, her own decisions to make. No one—no one—was going to scold her.

She inhaled sharply, ready to snap back at him, but then she froze. There was a shift in her thoughts, a quiet flicker that made her pause.

Why do I care?

The question was fleeting, buried beneath the rising tide of her anger, but it lingered. Was she really upset because he was right? Or was it something deeper, something she didn’t want to confront? freёnovelkiss.com

She shook her head, trying to push it away, but the seed had been planted.

"Please, Kian, move. I have things to do," Isabella said, her voice strained with irritation. Inwardly, she kept questioning why she was so on edge, like her emotions were a tangled ball of yarn she couldn’t untangle no matter how hard she tried.

Maybe a bath would help. She prayed it would. She needed it to. Her nerves were stretched thinner than silk.

But then—

"What is that sweet scent?" Kian asked, his voice low and indifferent, slicing through her chaotic thoughts.

Isabella blinked at him, stunned. Did he just casually ignore her entire request to move?

She let out a sigh, barely resisting the urge to rub her temples. "It’s perfume," she lied smoothly, the words slipping off her tongue with the ease of someone used to covering up disasters.

There was no way she was telling him about the revolutionary, fragrance-infused, self-cleaning, leak-proof sanitary pad she was currently wearing.

God, kill me now.

But before she could come up with a better excuse—or even properly explain what perfume was—Kian’s icy blue gaze locked onto hers, pinning her in place.

It made her feel seen. Not the normal kind of seen. No. It was the kind of gaze that stripped away your clothes, your defenses, your secrets. It made her heart hammer against her ribs.

"No," Kian said, his tone still flat, detached. "You’re in heat."

Isabella almost swore on her favorite moisturizer that she saw something flicker in his eyes—something dark, something almost predatory—before it vanished behind his usual emotionless mask.

"In what now?" Isabella blurted, eyebrows shooting up, disbelief flooding her voice. Had he really just said that to her?

Oh right, she realized with a sick twist in her stomach. Beast world. Beast men. Heat. Fertility cycles. Oh, freaking hell.

"Is there... anything special about that?" she forced out, her face heating with every word. Talking about her first period in another world was absolutely not on her bucket list. Especially not with Kian.

Especially not when his damn eyes kept looking at her like she was something he could devour if he just cared enough to try.

Kian took a step closer, the movement slow, deliberate.

Instinctively, Isabella backed up, bumping into the hide curtain behind her. She felt cornered—and she hated it.

"W-what...?" Her voice cracked, trembling slightly, and she wanted to bury herself alive. Where was her composure? Her sass? Her dignity?

All of it evaporated under the weight of Kian’s gaze.

And she could feel it—her cheeks burning hotter than a desert afternoon. She had no doubt she looked like a walking tomato right now.

Absolutely humiliating.

(She was, in fact, bright red.)

"Isabella, what are you doing up?"

The soft concern in the voice made her flinch.

Her head snapped toward the sound. Cyrus stood there, his brows furrowed, a hand half-raised like he’d been reaching for her but stopped himself.

His entire presence radiated calm—like sunlight breaking through a stormcloud.

She hadn’t even heard him approach. Damn it.

Had he been there long? Her eyes flicked to Kian instinctively.

The cold bastard had taken a step back, the space between them no longer charged—but she couldn’t tell if he’d moved because he sensed Cyrus... or because he’d finally had enough of toying with her.

Either way, she hated that her body still buzzed where his gaze had touched her. Like the heat he accused her of had slithered under her skin and refused to leave.

"A-ah, I wanted to wash up," she said, trying to find strength in her voice—but it came out light. Thin. Too light. Like even her own body was mocking her now.

And worse?

She suddenly realized: Kian had let her feel like she was in control.

Let her think she was teasing him.

But the moment she looked away, the illusion cracked. He’d been leading her the entire time, coolly, calmly, like a hunter circling a curious little prey that thought it was cute for biting back.

Her pride prickled. Her stubbornness reared.

Was she really going to just step down? Let Kian make her feel like this?

"I’ll take you," Cyrus said, stepping in with the gentleness of a sunrise.

And Kian—

"No."

The word dropped like a rock.

One syllable. No explanation. No inflection. Just flat resistance, delivered with such finality that even the wind seemed to hush.

Both Isabella and Cyrus turned to him slowly, expressions frozen in that universal what the hell does that mean? moment.

Kian didn’t clarify. He didn’t blink. He just stood there, arms loose at his sides, his cold blue eyes steady. Watchful.

Almost... possessive?

A silence stretched, taut and strange. And in that silence, Isabella’s mind whirled, tugging at every thread it could find.

What exactly had just happened?

Why did it feel like Kian had drawn a line in the sand?

And why, in the pit of her stomach, did that feel way more dangerous than it should have?