CHAPTER 213: CHAPTER 214: WHY DO I SMELL LIKE WILD MINT, BUT YOU STILL SMELL LIKE FISH GUTS, HUH?!

His mate slapped the back of his head so hard, he nearly bit his tongue.

"What is wrong with you, eh?" she snapped. "Has the sun cooked your brain?"

The man stumbled forward, holding his head, utterly betrayed.

"I used to think like you," she said, stepping out boldly now, standing in front of her mate and facing the rest. "I thought it was fine to smell like animal fur and dirt. But she—" she pointed at Isabella, "—taught us that smelling good and feeling clean isn’t weak. It’s power. It’s pride."

There were murmurs from the other women, nods of agreement, and one loud "Yes!" from someone in the back.

The woman continued, hands on her hips. "She taught us about keeping our bodies clean, about keeping our homes clean. Because we’re not ba-ba—"

She stumbled, the word foreign on her tongue. Her mate blinked, confused. Everyone turned to look at her.

Isabella stepped in smoothly, one brow raised and arms crossed. "Barbarians," she supplied, voice dry and loaded with sarcasm.

The woman’s eyes lit up. "Yes! Barbarians!" she repeated proudly, nodding gratefully toward Isabella. "We’re not barbarians anymore. If our mates still want to live in shit, let them—but not beside me."

A loud, offended gasp came from one of the men.

Another woman added, "Exactly! What’s the point of all that cleaning if they’re just going to roll in filth like dung beetles?"

"And stink up our bedding!" someone else chimed in, pinching her nose.

More women nodded, noses scrunching in distaste, some even stepping away from their mates who now looked like guilty children caught stealing meat from the pot.

Another woman stepped forward. "She’s right! I used to think it didn’t matter, that it was just the way of things. But I look at myself now, and I feel better. And I smell like flowers! Why shouldn’t they?"

Murmurs turned into full agreement. The women began standing straighter, speaking louder.

"Why should we be the only ones who care about hygiene?"

"Exactly!"

"Why do I smell like wild mint, but you still smell like fish guts, huh?!"

"He sniffed my neck and asked if I was trying to seduce the whole tribe. I said no, just trying not to gag around you."

Another woman suddenly stepped out, voice cutting clear through the rising storm. "If they won’t listen to us," she said, her tone slow and heavy, "then maybe we should just break the mating bond."

The entire clearing went silent.

Even the birds stopped chirping.

Isabella blinked. Oh.

The men froze, stunned like they’d been slapped by the spirit of the ancestors themselves.

Then came the wave of panic.

"What? No—wait!"

"B-break the bond?! You wouldn’t—!"

"Please, think of the children!"

It didn’t matter that the women hadn’t meant it literally. The impact had landed.

One by one, the men dropped to their knees in front of their mates. Like dominos. The slap-happy mate? Down. The "not manly" one? On his knees, practically trembling.

"Please, I will wash! I will bathe every day!"

"I’ll use the sweet-smelling rock stuff!" the male cried, dropping to his knees and rubbing his face against his mate’s bare thighs like a starving beast seeking forgiveness. His voice cracked with panic. "I don’t care if it burns my skin! Rub it on me—rub it everywhere!"

His mate crossed her arms, unimpressed.

"Where is the soap?!" another male shouted from the crowd, eyes wide with genuine fear. "Give it! I’ll eat it if I must!"

He grabbed a nearby gourd and sniffed inside like a desperate addict. "This one smells like flowers! I want the one that smells like tree bark and heaven!"

A third male was already on his belly, crawling toward a patch of leaves where a soap gourd had been placed earlier. "I will bathe! I’ll scrub my armpits, my tail, my soul! Just don’t leave me!"

All around, males were groveling—sweating, trembling, trying to sniff themselves and flinching at their own stench. The fear of broken bonds had turned them into beasts with manners.

Isabella folded her arms across her chest, watching the chaos unfold with the tiniest smirk curling at her lips.

A woman leaned toward her, whispering, "You see that one? He hasn’t bent the knee since his mating day. I might cry."

Isabella cleared her throat, lifting her voice again. "Alright, alright, that’s enough."

The groveling slowed. The men looked up like guilty puppies, still on their knees, their pride shattered, their faces flushed.

She raised a brow. "You lot think smelling like sweat and goat piss makes you manly? It doesn’t. It makes you disgusting. You want to protect your mates? Start by making sure your stench isn’t the thing attacking them."

There were ashamed mutters, a few nervous chuckles.

Luca, who had finally reached her side, leaned close and whispered with a crooked grin, "I already washed this morning."

"Good," Isabella replied without looking at him. "You might actually earn extra cuddles."

He perked up instantly.

Isabella turned back to the group. "I’m glad you all love your mates. I am. But love means effort. Not excuses. So here’s what we’re going to do—"

She clapped her hands once. "Ladies, finish up! Keep your soap, toothpaste, and buckets safe. Like I said earlier, if anything breaks or gets lost, go to your mates. They’ve been taught how to remake everything. No excuses."

There were nods, laughter, and sighs of relief. Some of the men were still kneeling just in case, one even hugging his mate’s leg like a child.

Some of the men—now significantly humbler—stood and helped carry buckets, fetch soap, or awkwardly ask how to brush their teeth.

Isabella watched them all with a mix of pride and mild exhaustion. Her hands rested on her hips, her head tilted as she surveyed the scene.

It was working. Bit by bit, she was changing this place. One soap bubble at a time.

But then Isabella paused, her gaze narrowing with the slow burn of recollection. Her lips curled into a dangerous smile—one of those "I-just-remembered-you-messed-up" smiles that made grown men sweat.

"Wait a minute..." she said, her voice sugary sweet. "Luca, weren’t you in charge of teaching the men how to wash? And also, why hygiene is not a threat to their masculinity?"

The moment her words landed, all heads turned to Luca.

Luca—big, proud, dangerously attractive palace wolf—visibly flinched like she’d just thrown a bar of soap at his forehead. He took an instinctive step back, eyes wide, hands halfway up in surrender.

"I-I think Cyrus needs my help with... uh... cooking!" he announced far too quickly, voice cracking at the end like a teenage boy caught with a sock and a fantasy magazine.

Isabella lifted a brow.

Cooking?

Luca?

The same man who once said, "Why cook when you can just stare at the fire and hope it gets the job done?"

Before Isabella could even open her mouth to respond, Luca was already backing away, palms out, smiling awkwardly like someone who just realized too late that she was definitely going to bring this up again. "Yup, urgent. Very urgent. He’s boiling water right now. Things are... critical."

Then—poof!

He burst into his massive wolf form so fast his pants evaporated.

With a giant woosh of fur and muscle, the oversized beast spun around, tail smacking one of the other men in the face as he bolted toward the horizon like a criminal evading bath time.

"Luca!" Isabella shouted after him.

But all she got in return was the fading thump-thump-thump of panicked pawprints and a very loud "AWOOOOO—NO THANK YOU!"

Dead silence fell over the group.

One of the women snorted.

Another couldn’t hold it in and let out a cackle.

Isabella pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something about "goddamn hairy man-children," then let out a long, exasperated sigh and shook her head.

"Tsk," she clicked, a sound sharper than any whip. "Just wait till I catch that oversized fleabag. I’ll be the one giving him a lesson."

The women all grinned. Their mates? Suddenly terrified that they might be next.

And Isabella just stood there, arms crossed, watching the aftermath like a queen surveying a battlefield littered with the remains of dignity and damp fur.