Page 103 of The Beast's Heart

“Are you all right?” I ask, once they’re out of earshot. “What’s happened? Is it the foundation?”

He gives me a sheepish smile and runs a hand absently through his hair—something I’ve noticed he tends to do when he’s feeling awkward. “I’m fine. Sorry, I probably should have neatened up.”

I step closer and reach up to touch his cheek. His gaze locks on mine and I see pain there I don’t know how to interpret. “You know you can tell me anything?”You don’t have to be the big, strong, beast for me.

He catches my hand in his. “I’m fine Belle. But I have something I want to— are you free?”

“Of course.”

He leads me towards the west wing and I follow. I can hear the children running through the downstairs corridors. Sometimes, between CraftWar games, they like playing hide and seek in the empty bedrooms.

“You weren’t at breakfast. Or lunch. I was a little concerned.”

We step into the dark, concrete corridor that leads to his bedroom. He slows down so I can fall into step. “Yeah.” The hand in his hair again. “Sorry. I got caught up.”

“As long as you’re eating.”

“Belle, you don’t have to worry about me. Especially not today.” The shy little smile returns to his face as my stomach gives a little leap.

I never mentioned my birthday. It didn’t seem important in this year without time, in this small universe where every day is precious. “How did you know?”

“I have your paperwork, Belle.”

“You have my father’s paperwork.”

He steps in front of me, leaning against his bedroom door frame, blocking the way. “I had a background check done on you. I knoweverythingabout you.” His eyes twinkle.

“Everything?” I challenge with a quirk of my eyebrow, closing the space between us.

He hums. I love the rumble of his voice when he does that. “At least as much as the government knows.”

I mock gasp, hand flying to my chest. “Not my tax code.”

“Your tax codeandyour grades. We’re very thorough.”

“Almost worth all the lonely nights of studying then.”

He chuckles and then says, in a serious voice, “Close your eyes.”

I do so, obediently. My heart flutters at the thought that he might have something birthday-related up his sleeve. I have no idea what to expect.

Adam moves around me and presses his large hands gently over my eyes. “No peeking,” he whispers against my ear, his breath brushing against my neck and setting the hairs on end.

We step forward into his room. When he drops his hands away, at first I’m not sure what I’m looking at. It’s his room, as empty and cold as ever before. His bed has been hastily made and at first I think that this might be an invitation to that bed. Heat is already curling in my stomach when I notice the clothes rack. He doesn’t use a rack. His clothes, when not discarded haphazardly about the room, are in the ornate closet.

He also doesn’t wear tweed.

I turn to look at him, searching his face for confirmation.

“Go on,” he says, low in my ear. “Take a look.”

He nudges me forward, towards the rack. It’s jam packed with clothing. I can’t make out any details from afar, just that it’s full. My pulse is racing in my ears.

I feel like I’m in a dream when I reach out to touch the tweed jacket. I run my hand along the line of clothes, hardly daring to breathe. Beside the jacket, a set of blazers in navy, burgundy and Burberry checks. There are waistcoats in tweed and paisley, a pale plum oxford, a soft camel v-neck, a baby blue cardigan, a collared shirt with a motif of birds in flight. It’s my wardrobe. The one I lost.

“How?” I ask.

“Mostly a lot of Googling.” Adam wraps his arms around my waist. “It’s not everything and it’s not exactly the same as before, I’m afraid.”

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