Chapter 367: Chapter 367: It’s just berries! Berries!
Isabella did not know what to do as she stared from one man to another, her spoon hovering in the air like it was caught in traffic. Her eyes bounced left, right, left again, like she was watching a very boring tennis match but with way scarier players.
Kian’s face was a blank wall—expressionless, carved from stone, the kind of face that made men trip over themselves apologizing just for existing. His cold gaze could crush bones, and right now, it was aimed directly at Cyrus.
But Cyrus wasn’t "any man," was he? No, no. He sat there calm, pink eyes soft but unshaken, like a river that refused to move even when the mountain leaned on it. He stared back, not with heat, not with ice, but with quiet strength that only annoyed Kian further.
And the prize? Not treasure. Not victory. Not even Isabella’s kiss. No, the prize was a little dish of foraged brined berries.
Neither moved. Neither blinked. Neither even breathed. Their hands hovered an inch above the bowl like warriors dueling with chopsticks.
Isabella’s stomach growled. Loudly. She slapped her hand over her belly like it had betrayed her deepest secret. "Seriously?" she muttered, glaring at the two of them. "It’s just berries! Berries!"
But no, no—this was not about berries. This was about man pride. About proving who could please Isabella first, who would be the one to drop food into her bowl and claim an invisible point in a scoreboard no one asked for.
Because in this world? Men did the most foolish things in the name of women. And women? Women just wanted to eat.
Zyran sat back with pure disdain, chin in hand, staring at the scene like it was the worst play he’d ever been forced to watch. "Pathetic," he muttered under his breath. He could not, for the life of him, understand why these two had to dramatize everything.
Always the staring contests. Always the flexing. Always the "who loves Isabella more." It was exhausting. Couldn’t they just, oh, he didn’t know, disappear into a hole and leave him and Isabella to their future of eternal bliss? He would happily do all the caring, all the feeding, all the protecting—alone. He didn’t need these two turning every breakfast into a competition.
He remembered back when he used to sneak out of the underworld and wander the beastworld for fun. He used to laugh at how beastmen clung to their women like sticky honey. He thought their loyalty was hilarious, impressive even, but ridiculous. "Why not just share?" he used to ask himself.
But then came Isabella. Sweet, stubborn, beautiful Isabella. And suddenly? Suddenly, sharing wasn’t funny anymore. No. Sharing was impossible. He wanted her—all of her. Every smile, every laugh, every blush. And these two blockheads? They were always in his way.
While Kian and Cyrus continued their silent, eye-burning battle over a sad little bowl of salty berries, Zyran decided he would be the only sane man in the room.
He reached casually for an apple on the table, his movements smooth and unbothered, like he wasn’t about to commit the ultimate power move. With a small knife, he sliced the apple cleanly, the blade glinting as it cut through the crisp flesh. The sound was sharp and fresh, the aroma instantly sweet in the air.
He placed the slices neatly on a small wooden plate, every move deliberate, graceful. Then, with all the smugness in the world, he slid the plate right next to Isabella.
"Start eating," he said smoothly, his voice breaking through the thick fog of tension. "The food will get cold if you don’t."
The effect was immediate. Kian’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing like a blade drawn in silence. Cyrus blinked once, as if annoyed he’d even allowed the interruption. And Isabella—poor Isabella—jumped a little, snapping out of her trance like someone had just poured cold water on her head.
She’d actually forgotten Zyran was even there.
And that smug smile on his face? Oh, it made her want to throw the apple back at him.
She looked at him, then at the apples he had so carefully sliced, her face scrunching in obvious displeasure.
"Did I ask you to slice them for me?" she said, her tone sharp, annoyed. Without waiting for his answer, she turned away, scooped up rice, and stuffed a spoonful into her mouth with exaggerated defiance. "I don’t want any foraged brined berries," she added, chewing loudly, as if to drown out the insult she had just thrown.
Zyran: "..."
His hands froze midair, knife still resting over the half-sliced apple. He stared at Isabella, bewildered, trying to figure out how in all the realms he had managed to mess this up. She ate his rice, oh yes—gladly, hungrily, even moaned about it—but when it came to the apples he personally cut for her? She dismissed them like they were dirt under her shoes.
How in the beastworld did that make sense?
His chest ached with the sting of injustice. He felt... used. Exploited. Like a traveling merchant she had haggled down to nothing and then kicked off the road. She only wanted his food—his carefully hunted, smugly presented food—and then discarded him to the side like old bread? That was cruel. Utterly unfair.
And he knew—oh, he knew—that if it had been Cyrus or Kian who had cut those apples, she would have been glowing, smiling, beaming like it was some kind of royal gift delivered by the gods themselves. She would have stared at them with her wide blue eyes, maybe even giggled, and everyone would clap and say, "Ah, how romantic."
But when it was him? Zyran? The great, handsome, absolutely irresistible Zyran? Suddenly apples weren’t good enough? Suddenly he was a clown performing tricks for free?
He pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning internally. What could he do? He couldn’t scold her. He couldn’t storm out. He couldn’t tie her to a chair and force-feed her apple slices (well... technically, he could, but he had promised himself not to get thrown out of the palace either). So he sat there, stewing in his beautiful, wounded pride, already scheming more ways to make her fall for him.
Meanwhile, Kian and Cyrus—those smug, self-righteous beasts—looked at Isabella after she so bluntly announced she didn’t want any foraged brined berries. Slowly, silently, their hands withdrew from the bowl at the same time, like two warriors backing away from a battlefield neither had won. The berries sat there, untouched, innocent casualties of pride.
"Cyrus, this is really good," Isabella said suddenly, her voice sweet, her lips curving into an impressed smile. Her eyes fluttered shut as she chewed, bliss written all over her face.
Cyrus blinked, then smiled so softly it could have melted steel. His ears flushed pink, betraying how her praise sank into his chest like a warm knife. Cooking for Isabella wasn’t just duty. It was joy. It was purpose. Watching her eat and glow like that made him want to prepare her meals forever, just to keep that smile on her face.
Zyran’s jaw almost cracked from clenching. He swore the apple in his hand whispered, Throw me at him. End this misery.
Then Isabella felt a sudden shuffle on her lap. She jolted. "Oh no—Glimora!"
Right. They had completely forgotten about the tiny tyrant perched in her arms. Glimora had been waiting, silently, as though allowing the drama of the men to play out like a stage show for her amusement. But now? Now she wanted her share.
Isabella bent to scold her, but before she could even speak, the little white beast bounced—leapt!—straight onto the table.
"Glimora!" Isabella shouted, her voice cracking in shock. She almost dropped her spoon.
Everyone froze. Even Zyran, who had been silently sulking over his rejected apples, looked up sharply.
The sight was absurd: the tiny furball planted squarely on the wooden table, her fluffy tail flicking with menace, her small frame vibrating with something between hunger and vengeance.
To Isabella, this was terrifying. Glimora had never—never—jumped onto the dining table like this. The boldness was strange, unsettling. It wasn’t the usual mischief of stealing food scraps or demanding attention. No, no. This was different. Her ears were flat, her little mouth firm, her gaze locked like a predator’s.
And worse? Glimora didn’t even spare Isabella a glance.
Her glowing eyes were trained solely on one man.
Zyran.
The room shifted. Air thinned. Everyone sat up straighter.
Isabella’s blood went cold. "Glimora, come down here this instant," she ordered, her voice sharp with command. She thought—she hoped—that Glimora was still angry about the soup incident from yesterday, when Zyran had stolen her portion. Maybe that was it. Maybe Glimora had hopped up here to take petty revenge, to claw at the dishes, to spill his food across the floor.
Even Zyran assumed it. He braced himself, lips pressed tight, ready to dodge flying claws or an upturned bowl. His mind raced through defensive strategies—should he duck under the table? Should he grab the apples as a shield?
But then—oh then—Glimora turned her tiny head, her gaze sweeping back to Isabella for a single beat. Everyone relaxed a fraction, thinking, Ah, she’s going back down.
They were wrong.
So, so wrong.
Because in the next heartbeat, with a blur of white fur and sheer audacity, Glimora launched. She flung her tiny body across the table like a missile and landed, perched delicately but firmly, right on Zyran’s shoulder.
The sound of her small legs against fabric echoed in the silence.
Everyone. Froze.
Isabella’s jaw dropped open so far a spoon could’ve fit inside. Kian’s blue eyes narrowed, unreadable but sharp. Cyrus’ hand stilled over a bowl, pink gaze locked with faint disbelief. And Zyran—oh, poor Zyran—sat frozen as though a live bomb had just armed itself on his body.
"..."
Not a single soul moved.
The little beast sat there, calm, balanced, tail curling around his neck like a scarf of authority. Her tiny nose twitched once, her ears perked, and then—then—she smirked.