The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 133: She’s still recovering. I can help her bathe, it’s not an issue

Chapter 133: Chapter 133: She’s still recovering. I can help her bathe, it’s not an issue

Cyrus’ soft voice had barely landed when Kian’s "No" cut through the air like a blade dipped in ice.

Both Isabella and Cyrus turned to him—equally surprised, equally caught off guard—but for different reasons.

Kian didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink. He simply stood there like a carved statue of restraint, his eyes locked on Isabella’s, expression unreadable. The shadows clung to the sharp lines of his jaw as if even the light was hesitant to touch him.

"No... what?" Isabella asked slowly, her voice not quite hers, not quite anyone’s. Something tight settled in her chest—tight enough to make breathing feel effortful.

Kian didn’t answer.

Instead, he took a step forward.

It was small, quiet, and casual—yet it rang in her bones like thunder. Her back stiffened, toes curling instinctively into the furs beneath her feet. Every nerve felt suddenly raw, her skin prickling with invisible heat.

Cyrus frowned gently, a silent question furrowing his brow as his gaze flicked between the two of them. "Kian," he said, voice calm but edged with tension, "she’s still recovering. I can help her bathe, it’s not an issue."

Isabella’s head whipped around so fast she nearly unbalanced herself.

Help her bathe?

Her brain did a full reboot. A very dramatic one. If she were holding a teacup, it would’ve shattered. If she were chewing gum, it would’ve flown out her mouth.

Did he just—

Did sweet, sunshine-Cyrus just volunteer to—?

Her lips parted, a startled sound caught in her throat as her eyes ping-ponged between the two men. Her hands flew up, flapping like startled pigeons. She didn’t know whether to laugh, pass out, or accept the offer like a spoiled princess with a towel crown.

But before she could say anything—before she could form a single, cohesive thought—

Kian turned to him, eyes calm, lips pressed in a flat line. "That’s not your role."

"Since when did it become yours?" Isabella asked, before she could stop herself. The words rolled out sharp, defensive—meant to mask the wildfire crawling up her neck and blooming hot across her cheeks.

Kian turned back to her.

That look.

It wasn’t lust—not exactly. It was something deeper, quieter. Something territorial, almost primal, but tucked under a layer of cold calculation.

Isabella swallowed, suddenly aware of her body in ways she didn’t want to be. The pulse in her neck. The brush of her hair against her collarbone. The thin layer of sweat clinging to her back. She had the very distinct feeling she was being studied—not like a person, but like something Kian couldn’t decide whether to touch or cage.

She tore her eyes away from him and looked at Cyrus—sweet, gentle, reliable Cyrus—who was now watching her with a worried frown. "You don’t look steady," he said gently, taking a step toward her. "Let me help you."

"I said I’m fine," Isabella replied, though her knees trembled beneath her dress, betraying the lie. The heat hadn’t gone down—it only settled lower, a pulsing warmth she couldn’t shake.

She forced herself to stand straighter, biting down the haze clouding her thoughts. Why was Kian’s gaze making her feel like prey? Or worse—like she wanted to be caught?

Cyrus reached for her elbow, his touch feather-light and warm, but the second his fingers brushed her skin, Kian’s hand shot out—fast, sharp, and caught her other arm.

The moment froze.

Kian wasn’t looking at Cyrus. He was staring at her.

"You shouldn’t let anyone touch you when you’re like this," he said quietly.

Her heart slammed against her ribcage. "Like this?"

Kian’s eyes dropped—lower than was polite—and returned to hers with that same eerie calm. "In heat."

She could’ve screamed. Or fainted. Or both. But instead, she laughed. High, awkward, and nervous. "You keep saying that like I’m some kind of wild cat."

Kian didn’t smile. "That’s not what I meant."

His voice was softer now. Almost thoughtful. And that scared her more than anything else. Because if Kian was being thoughtful, that meant he was thinking—and knowing him, that couldn’t be good.

"Can we not do this?" she snapped, yanking her arm back. "I already feel like my head’s floating and my skin’s made of lava. I’m not in the mood for weird territorial debates over who gets to escort the invalid to the river."

Neither man spoke. The tension hung between them, thick and cloying.

Cyrus exhaled slowly, the peacemaker in him surfacing. "Isabella, I only want to help. You don’t need to push yourself."

Isabella stared at him—then turned her head just slightly to see Kian still watching her. There was no challenge in his stare, no smirk, no teasing. Just... observation.

She hated how calm he looked. Like nothing affected him. Like even this—the fact that her body was betraying her—was expected. Managed. Not a big deal.

But it was. It was a big deal.

Because even now, when she wanted to be annoyed—wanted to snap and storm off and feel powerful—her legs were trembling under her. Not just from weakness, but from the overwhelming awareness of Kian’s gaze.

What was it about him?

"Fine," she said sharply, grabbing her hide dress tighter. "I’ll go by myself. Alone. Since I apparently need a guarded convoy to take a bath."

"No, you won’t," Kian said again.

Before she could scream into the ether, the sound of heavy boots approached fast—sharp, purposeful thuds against the wooden floor outside.

A guard appeared at the curtain, saluting awkwardly when he spotted the tension in the room.

"Apologies, my king," the guard said with a low bow. "The guests have arrived at the throne room. They’re waiting for you."

The guard bowed again, head dipped low. "The visitors are waiting, Lord Kian."

Kian didn’t look at him. His gaze was still on Isabella—glued to her flushed cheeks, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the way she gripped her dress like it was the only thing anchoring her to the floor.

"I said," the guard repeated more hesitantly, "the visitors—"

"Go," Kian finally said, voice cold and clipped. "I’ll come when I wish."