The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 239 - 240: You talk about food like it’s magic

"We have rice, beans..." Isabella said slowly, the words rolling off her tongue like a melody, her eyes glossing over with the kind of nostalgia that painted her cheeks in a soft pink hue.

Cyrus blinked. "Rice?" he echoed, gently, as if tasting the word.

"Mmhmm," she hummed, scooping another spoonful of soup. "Tiny white grains. Fluffy when steamed. They soak up sauces like a dream. You can pair them with anything—vegetables, stews, even beans."

Cyrus tilted his head, visibly trying to imagine it. "So... it’s like the grain here? That dry one?"

She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "No, not that nonsense you people call food. Real rice is tender, warm, comforting. It smells like home. Especially when it’s cooked in coconut milk with just a hint of garlic. You’d cry if you tasted it."

"Cry?" Cyrus chuckled softly, utterly enchanted. "Over food?"

"Absolutely." She nodded seriously, but the playful sparkle in her eyes betrayed her. "There’s a kind of rice we fry too—add oil, chopped onions, carrots, peas. The scent alone? It fills the entire house. You’d swear a festival was coming."

A tiny noise interrupted her—a curious squeaky growl. Isabella looked down.

Glimora was frozen mid-chew, her meat abandoned on the floor as she stared up at Isabella, wide-eyed and suspiciously alert.

Isabella blinked. "Oh? Don’t tell me someone’s interested in the rice now?"

Glimora’s ears twitched. Then, as if it would make her point clearer, she padded closer, pressed her chin against Isabella’s ankle, and gave the most hopeful little whine.

"Aww," Isabella laughed, scooping her up into her arms. "Of course. You want the rice, don’t you? You want the fried rice? With crispy meat on the side?"

Glimora let out a small squeal, tail wagging furiously as she licked Isabella’s chin.

Cyrus just watched them, his heart caught somewhere in his throat. The sight of Isabella giggling with the small beast in her arms, her lips curved, eyes soft, was too much. She was like sunlight in a cage of stone. A girl that didn’t belong to this world, and yet filled it with so much life.

"What else?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me more."

Isabella looked at him over the rim of her bowl, the corners of her lips twitching. "You really want to know?"

"I do," he said with the kind of earnestness that made her blink twice.

"Fine," she smirked, tucking Glimora under her arm like a fuzzy purse. "We have something called pancakes. Flat, fluffy circles made from flour and eggs. You fry them on a hot surface, drizzle them with honey or melted butter, or both—if you hate your waistline."

Cyrus blinked slowly, clearly lost. "You... eat circles?"

Isabella giggled. "You eat a lot of things when they taste like heaven."

"What do they taste like?" he asked, chin resting on his knuckles now, eyes full of fascination.

"Like warmth. Like waking up late and still finding the world waiting for you. Like childhood, if it had a flavor. Oh! And we even have spicy ones too. You can eat them with something called syrup. Thick. Sweet. Like liquid gold."

Cyrus didn’t respond. He was just staring at her now.

Isabella paused mid-rant, tilting her head. "What?"

"You’re..." He trailed off, then shook his head with a soft breath of a smile. "You talk about food like it’s magic."

"It is magic," she said with a mockingly serious expression, holding Glimora’s legs like a dramatic partner. "You think love is the only thing that makes people cry? No. It’s food. A good pot of stew has saved more lives than any sword or spell."

Glimora squealed in agreement.

Cyrus laughed, really laughed now. The sound was soft but real, like the crackling of dry leaves in early sunlight. "Then tell me more about this... stew."

"Oh, baby, where do I start?" Isabella set the soup bowl down and leaned forward as if sharing a sacred secret. "Red stew. Tomatoes, onions, garlic, oil—and not just any oil, spicy oil that burns your tongue and makes your eyes water—but you’ll keep eating anyway."

Cyrus looked concerned. "Why would anyone eat something that hurts?"

"Because it hurts so good," she said, hand on her chest. "It’s the kind of food that makes you sweat, cry, and dance all at once."

"You dance while eating?" he asked, raising a brow.

"Sometimes I have to," she said, fully serious. "There’s this one time—oh!" She paused, suddenly flushed with the memory. "I was around Glimora’s size. My mother..."

She paused for a moment like it hurt, unsure weather to continue, but she did.

"My mother made something called jollof rice. My brother tried to steal my meat. I slapped him with my spoon."

Cyrus’s eyes widened. "You hit your brother?"

"He hit me first!" Isabella said defensively, then laughed. "But the food was worth fighting for. Ask anyone. If someone touches your jollof rice, they’ve declared war."

Glimora let out a series of enthusiastic grunts as if she completely understood and agreed.

Cyrus was smiling again, but this time he didn’t speak. He just... watched her.

The way her hands moved as she described flavors. The way her cheeks lit up when she remembered childhood. The way her voice dropped when she said the word "home," even though she never explained what that was or where it was.

He didn’t understand any of the dishes she mentioned, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the glow in her face when she talked about them. As if her memories were coated in cinnamon and spiced oil and all the things she missed but couldn’t name aloud.

"Cyrus?" she said suddenly, breaking the quiet. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel-com

"Hm?" he blinked, pulled out of his daze.

"Did you fall asleep with your eyes open?"

"No," he chuckled. "I was just... listening."

Isabella softened. "You’re too sweet. It’s scary."

He rubbed the back of his neck, a small blush creeping up. "Sorry."

"Don’t apologize for being a soft boy," she teased, nudging his leg with hers. "I need at least one of you three males to act like a proper creature with a functioning heart."

"I’m not soft," he mumbled quietly, but his ears were tinted red.

"You are," she said, smirking. "And that’s not an insult. You’re decent. And you bring me soup. That’s basically holy behavior where I come from."

Glimora wriggled out of Isabella’s arms with a determined grunt, landing with a soft thud on her slender, high-stepping limbs. Her tiny unguligrade hooves clicked lightly against the stone floor as she began a theatrical prance in tight little circles, nose twitching like a tiny forager on a mission. She bent low—well, as low as her long, dainty legs allowed—and tapped the ground rapidly with the tips of her feet, as though coaxing some invisible rice to magically appear.

"Oh my stars," Isabella muttered, watching her. "This child’s legs were built for catwalks, not crime scenes."

But Glimora was far too invested in her imaginary hunt to be insulted.

"You’re not getting any," Isabella told her. "I haven’t figured out how to make it yet."

Glimora collapsed dramatically, flopping over with a groan.

Cyrus laughed again. "You two are alike."

"Blasphemy," Isabella said, picking Glimora back up. "I’m an icon. She’s a chaos ball."

"Exactly," he replied, smiling.

Just then—

Footsteps.

Soft but deliberate. Echoing down the stone corridor just beyond their door.

Isabella paused, her spoon hovering mid-air.

Cyrus sat straighter, hand instinctively moving to his side.

Even Glimora froze, ears flicking.