Beast Beauty System: The Exiled Fox is Pampered in the Beast World

Anaria stared at him.

No. No, absolutely not.

This was not happening. Not now. Not after everything she had already survived tonight. Not when she was still straddling him in the middle of a cave, sweaty, shaky, and one breath away from dying of humiliation.

His eyes were open.

Not clear. Not fully awake. But open enough to see her.

Her pulse went rabid.

Then, because the heavens clearly despised her, his grip tightened around her waist.

Anaria sucked in a breath. ”Oh no.”

Rylan’s gaze dragged over her face, dark and heavy-lidded, the haze in his eyes doing absolutely nothing to soften the dangerous edge beneath it. There was confusion there, yes—but beneath it, something more primal stirred. Heat. Instinct. Possession.

Anaria flattened both palms against his chest and forced dignity into her voice.

”Listen carefully. You are going to let go of me, close your eyes, and pretend none of this happened.”

His brows drew together slightly, as if her words were failing to reach him through whatever fever-soaked state he was trapped in.

”...What,” he said again, rougher this time, voice scraped over sleep and heat, ”are you doing?”

Anaria opened her mouth.

”I,” she said stiffly, ”was in the middle of a medical emergency.”

That did not appear to answer any of his questions.

His gaze flicked down and back up to her face.

Heat shot up her throat.

”Don’t do that,” she snapped.

His voice dropped lower, rough with instinct.

”Where do you think you’re going... little beast?”

Anaria gaped at him. ”Excuse me?”

She tried to lift herself off him.

Rylan’s hand clamped harder around her waist, stopping her before she’d moved more than an inch.

”Take your hand off me.”

Nothing.

”I’m serious.”

Still nothing.

She grabbed his wrist with both hands and tried to pry him off. It was like trying to bend forged steel.

”Oh, you oversized menace,” she hissed. ”I just saved your life. Several times. Against my will. The least you can do is cooperate.”

His breathing changed.

Anaria felt it before she understood it, the shift in his chest beneath her palms, the way his body tightened under her, the way the air in the cave seemed to thicken all over again.

Her stomach dropped.

No.

The fever-bright look in his eyes sharpened into something darker, hotter, less human. The scent around him deepened—wild, male, unstable.

Anaria’s voice sharpened instantly. ”No. I know that look. I hate that look.”

Rylan sat up.

It happened so suddenly she barely had time to gasp before the world tilted. One arm banded around her waist, and in one swift motion he rolled them. Anaria landed on her back in the furs with a deeply offended sound, and suddenly Rylan was above her—broad shoulders boxing her in, one hand still locked on her waist, his body all heat and muscle and terrible decisions.

For one second, she was too stunned to speak.

Then outrage returned in full force.

”You arrogant beast—”

”Why don’t you finish what you started?” he muttered.

Anaria went still.

Then stared at him as if he had personally insulted every ancestor she had ever had.

”Finish what I started?” she repeated. ”I was trying not to die, you fever-brained lunatic! There was no plan. There was no discussion. There was certainly no mutual agreement!”

Rylan did not look particularly interested in her legal defense.

His gaze stayed fixed on her face, dark and heavy with instinct, and when she shoved at his chest, he caught her wrist with humiliating ease and pinned it beside her head.

Anaria stared at their joined hands. Then looked back at him, scandalized.

”You have lost your mind.”

He lowered his head to the side of her neck.

The heat of his breath brushed her skin.

Anaria’s whole body jolted.

”This,” she said through gritted teeth, ”is exactly why I preferred you unconscious.”

Rylan answered with a low, rough groan in his throat, and then the fever took the rest of him.

The second wave of heat was worse.

Not because it was rougher though it was. Not because he was awake enough now to react to her though that certainly did not help. It was worse because Anaria’s body was already oversensitized from the antidote, because the poison had only just burned out of her system, because she was exhausted and furious and entirely too aware of the way his body moved over hers with no regard for her peace of mind.

She tried to stop him. Actually tried.

Hands against his shoulders. Sharp words. A furious, ”Pretty boy, if you do not control yourself this instant, I swear I’ll kill you after I save you.”

He did not look like a man in possession of enough reason to care.

His face pressed briefly into the curve of her shoulder, breath hot against her skin, body tense and feverish and still running on whatever savage instinct had dragged him back to consciousness in the first place. He moved in like a beast chasing relief rather than a man making choices, and somehow that only made Anaria angrier.

And more flustered.

And significantly more doomed.

”Oh, I hate this cave,” she gasped.

Rylan’s grip tightened on her waist.

”I hate this world,” she added, scandalized when her own voice came out thinner than intended. ”I hate your face. I hate your stupidly broad shoulders. I hate—”

The rest broke apart into a moan she would deny making until the day she died.

This was absurd.

Humiliating.

Not, under any circumstances, how emergency medicine was supposed to work.

Anaria clung to his shoulders anyway, furious at her own body for reacting when it should have been filing complaints. Every time she tried to gather herself, his dick crashed over her again deeper and harder, dragging another breath from her, another sharp protest, another traitorous shiver she absolutely did not consent to.

Somewhere in the middle of it, the last lingering weakness from the poison finally burned away. Her pulse steadied. The ache in her bones disappeared. The antidote—whatever cursed mechanism powered it—finished its work in a rush of heat that nearly made her see white.

The wolf shuddered hard above her.

His whole body went taut. His grip on her waist turned almost bruising for one sharp second harder, faster and deeper, and a low, rough moan tore from his throat.

Then all at once, a small soft heat release went out of his body and then his strength vanished.

He collapsed on top of her.

Anaria nearly died of outrage.

”Oh, move!”

She shoved at him with the last of her strength, wriggling and pushing until his dead weight finally rolled half off her onto the furs beside her.

Then she lay there on her back, breathing like she’d been dragged through war, staring up at the cave ceiling and seriously considering whether murder was still illegal in this world.

After a long silence, she covered her face with both hands.

”I’m going to kill that system.”

The system, naturally, stayed silent.

Very slowly, Anaria sat up.

Her body ached everywhere. Her hair was ruined. Her dress was twisted beyond salvation. Her dignity had long since packed its things and left. But when she pressed a hand to her chest and took stock of herself, the truth was undeniable.

The poison was gone.

Completely gone.

The fire in her veins had burned out. She was still weak and exhausted and furious, but she was alive.

Actually alive.

Relief hit her so hard it nearly hurt.

Then the wolf made a low, pained sound beside her.

Anaria turned.

He was unconscious again, sprawled on the furs, one arm over his dick, chest rising and falling in deep but uneven breaths. Without the fevered haze swallowing everything else, she could finally see him properly.

And what she saw made her stomach drop.

Blood.

There was a puncture wound near his ribs, ugly and deep beneath the drying smear of red. Slash marks across his shoulder and arm. Bruising darkening under his skin. Fever sweat still clung to him.

Anaria stared. ”Oh, don’t do this to me.”

She crawled over and pressed two fingers to his throat.

Pulse.

Alive.

Weak enough to worry her. Strong enough to keep her from panicking.

Anaria let out a breath. ”Good. If you died after putting me through all that, I’d be offended on principle.”

He, being unconscious, failed to appreciate the mercy of this statement.

She sat back on her heels and glared at him. ”You saved my life,” she muttered. ”Technically. In the worst way imaginable. And I saved yours. So as far as I’m concerned, we’re even.”

She stood, fully intending to gather herself and leave before dawn.

Then she looked at his wounds again.

The puncture. The blood loss. The fever.

He could die if she left him like this.

Anaria folded her arms and glared at the cave wall. ”Not my problem,” she told herself.

She took three steps toward the entrance.

Stopped.

Turned back.

”Ugh,” she said with feeling. ”I hate having a conscience.”

She marched back to him and snapped, ”System.”

Nothing.

Her eye twitched.

”Now you’re quiet? Of course. You appear when my dignity is under attack but vanish the second I need customer service.”

Still nothing.

”System!”

A pale panel flickered into existence.

[Host query recognized.]

”There you are, you scam,” Anaria snapped. ”He’s injured. Badly. Tell me there’s something useful in that ridiculous shop of yours before I throw myself into a river.”

The system, offensively calm, provided a beginner treatment guide, a basic herb pack on credit, and step-by-step wound instructions.

Naturally, it also charged her.

Anaria stared at the panel. ”I’m being extorted while doing charity.”

She bought it anyway.

The next hour was miserable.

She cleaned blood from his side with water and cloth, ground herbs into a bitter-smelling paste, and bandaged his ribs and shoulder while complaining under her breath the entire time.

”I can’t believe I’m doing manual labor,” she muttered, pressing cloth against the puncture wound. ”Back home I had people for this.”

He didn’t answer.

”I don’t even pour my own bath water.”

Still nothing.

”And now look at me. Elbow-deep in beastman blood because apparently the universe enjoys humiliating me personally.”

He flinched once when she packed medicine into the deeper wound.

Anaria’s hands gentled immediately.

”Don’t start,” she muttered. ”If you’re going to be dramatic, at least wake up for it.”

Little by little, the bleeding stopped. His breathing steadied. The fever eased under the herbs and the lingering touch of her soothing power.

By the time she finished, the cave had gone dark.

Anaria sat back on her heels, exhausted beyond reason. She was sore, filthy, hungry, and too drained to take another step. Rylan lay bandaged near the wall, still unconscious but no longer one breath from death.

She looked toward the cave entrance.

Pitch-black wilderness.

Leaving tonight would be idiotic.

Anaria hated when survival made sense.

She pointed a finger at Injured beast. ”I am not staying because I care. I’m staying because wandering into the dark after everything that happened today would be suicidal, and I’ve had enough attempted murders for one day.”

She dragged a spare fur to the far side of the cave and curled up with as much distance between them as possible.

”At sunrise, I’m gone,” she informed the darkness. ”You wake up, I disappear, and this becomes one of those traumatic memories we both suppress forever.”

He said nothing.

Anaria glared at the ceiling for a while longer, one eye half-open in case he woke up and said something outrageous again.

Just before exhaustion finally dragged her under, she muttered into the furs, ”If this beast wakes up before sunrise and says one more absurd thing to me, I’m pushing him back into unconsciousness.”

Then the cave went quiet, and Anaria finally slept.