Chapter 141: The Finished Well

Words : 1054 Updated : Sep 30th, 2025

Chapter 141: Chapter 141: The Finished Well Her breath caught. Thick stone slabs framed the structure in perfect alignment, not a crack or wobble in sight. The base was reinforced with carved supports that locked together like puzzle pieces, and the interior was lined with smoothed obsidian bricks. The rim sat solid, balanced, and perfectly level. Not a single flaw. Not even a wobble when she gave it a light tap. It didn’t just look sturdy—it looked like it would survive a small earthquake and still draw water. "Wow," Isabella said, genuinely impressed. "You all did a really good job." One of the men chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Eh, it was only because of the young man behind you that we were able to perfect it without your instructions." Isabella blinked. Her steps slowed. She turned slightly—She turned. Her gaze lifted—slowly, almost unwillingly—and landed on Cyrus. And just like that, her thoughts short-circuited. He stood a few paces behind her, tall and calm, arms loosely folded over his chest, his pale skin kissed by the sunlight. But what truly caught her breath wasn’t his appearance. It was his expression. Unmoving. Unbothered. Unbelievably... soft. No pride. No swagger. No victorious smirk begging for attention. Just that same gentle smile. Like he hadn’t just helped orchestrate the cleanest construction project she’d ever seen in this wild jungle world. Like he didn’t even want praise. Just... being. Watching. Quietly pleased. Isabella blinked at him. Her heart did this strange, offbeat thing in her chest, like a drumline losing rhythm. No. Absolutely not. This man—this crazy calm, stupidly kind man—was dangerous. Glimora shifted in her arms, the small beast nudging her chest with a snort. She absently stroked her furry head, grounding herself. Cyrus tilted his head slightly, his pink eyes never leaving hers. It hit her like a silent punch. He hadn’t visited then, when she was sick. Not one time. She’d been lying in bed, sick and stewing in her thoughts, assuming he was being distant, maybe even ungrateful. But now—now—it all made sense. He hadn’t stayed away because he didn’t care. He’d been here. With the others. Helping. Quietly picking up the slack she left behind without ever once making it a thing. And the most irritating part? He never complained. Never explained himself. Never sighed dramatically or looked at her like she owed him something. What is he, a saint? she thought bitterly, even as guilt curled tight in her gut. Her queen-level brain was scrambling. She was this close—this close—to scolding him when she thought he’d been avoiding her. The same man who had been working behind the scenes like the invisible backbone of a K-drama second male lead who somehow always fixed everything and never got the girl. Except... this was real life. Her life. She sucked in a breath and looked up at him again. Still that stupid, sweet smile. Still those ridiculously warm eyes. She narrowed hers. Was he... was he trying to charm her? Why did she suddenly feel the overwhelming urge to slap that expression off his face—not out of anger, but out of sheer confusion? Like he was holding open a door she didn’t even realize she’d locked. She bit the inside of her cheek. Glimora snorted again and made a half-turn in her arms, now comfortably nestled against her chest. Isabella adjusted her hold and exhaled. "Thank you, Cyrus," she said finally, voice low and sincere, her eyes darting to the side like it physically pained her to say it. Cyrus only hummed softly in response. "Hmm." That was it. No bow, no brag, not even an "it was nothing." Of course. Of course that’s how he’d react. Isabella turned away from him before her face could betray the small, traitorous smile curling at the corners of her lips. What was wrong with her? She was not the type to giggle and blush over calm, competent men who were overly kind and gentle—like emotional restraint was some kind of limited-edition accessory only the cool ones got to wear. But apparently, this world had other plans. Behind her, Cyrus watched quietly as her shoulders relaxed and the heaviness in her expression lightened. His smile widened, just a fraction. She might not have noticed—but he did. The warmth in his chest swelled as he watched her walk away with Glimora tucked protectively in her arms like a queen with a baby dragon. He’d never met anyone like her. Sharp-tongued. Commanding. Honest. And still, somehow soft in ways she tried so hard to hide. He didn’t need her to say more. That quiet "thank you" was more than enough. In fact, he’d keep earning it—again and again. Because he had already decided. He would always treat her the best. No matter what. Ophelia was already at the well, leaning dangerously close over the edge like she was about to dive in face-first. "Wow, Isabella! The water looks so clean!" she squealed, practically bouncing on her feet. Her round cheeks jiggled with each hop, like excited dumplings reacting to good soup. Behind her, Glimora wiggled in Isabella’s arms. The tiny beast stretched her stubby body as far as she could go, long ears twitching, trying to peer into the well with the same intensity as a toddler discovering glitter. "Yeah, no... that shit is still harmful," Isabella said flatly, yanking Glimora back like a protective mom at the mall. Glimora blinked up at her with a full-blown pout, big eyes shiny with betrayal. Isabella ignored her. "Fetch some up," she ordered, gesturing lazily at one of the men standing nearby. The poor guy nearly tripped over his own feet in his hurry to grab the bucket. Meanwhile, just a few steps away, three men huddled in a suspiciously gossip-worthy triangle. "She smells so good today," one whispered, clutching his chest dramatically—but softly. "Isn’t that so? Like... painfully good." "Extremely sweet," the second muttered back, his nose twitching like he’d caught a forbidden whiff of sugar in the air. "Like flowers and roasted berries." The third just nodded vigorously, eyes wide like he’d just seen a goddess descending from heaven. Which, to be fair, kind of felt accurate. Then a fourth man—a little older, a little wiser, and clearly done with their nonsense—hissed low from behind them.

Chapter 141: The Finished Well

Comments (0)