Page 15 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

What I find stops me dead.

The small ballroom has been transformed completely. String lights I don't recognize hang from the ancient beams, casting warm shadows across makeshift painted scenery propped against the walls. Where the fuck did all this come from? The stone fortress I've called home for years suddenly feels foreign. invaded not by enemies but by something more dangerous: whimsy.

"You need to leave or I will turn you into stone!" Isabella commands, some kind of sweater draped over her head like a hood, her movements theatrical but precise. The dancer in her never quite disappeared, even after everything I did to break her.

Elena prances around in what looks like a lion costume. Something Signora Martha must have smuggled in behind my back. My daughter's face glows with a joy I've rarely seen, completely engrossed in whatever fantasy world Isabella has created for her.

Cerberus, the traitor, is sprawled in the corner like some oversized guard dog who's forgotten his job. He flicks his ears inmy direction, acknowledging my presence before settling back with a huff of contentment.

"Oz. We have to find Oz!" Elena shouts, her voice carrying the melody of a song I vaguely recognize. The realization hits me like a physical blow—she's quoting from "Wicked." Her mother used to sing those songs before she died. Another piece of Elena's past I've failed to preserve for her.

Isabella twirls, her movements telling a story with her body that her voice carries through song. "You aren't a Beast..." she sings, her back still to me. The irony isn't lost. Of all the fairy tales to perform, she's chosen one that hits too close to home.

When she finally spots me and the gun hanging at my side, the color drains from her face like water through sand. Her eyes widen, but that spine I've come to respect straightens. Instead of breaking character, she doubles down, protecting Elena from the reality of a father who enters rooms with weapons drawn, ready for bloodshed.

Her voice wavers slightly off-key, her movements becoming more pronounced as she continues the charade. Not a hint of fear shows through her performance, though I can see it in the tightness around her eyes, the slightly too-rigid set of her shoulders.

Their bizarre blend of "Wicked" and "Oz" pulls me in against my will. I find myself sinking onto the stone bench nearby, the gun a heavy weight against my thigh as I holster it. Elena charges back into the scene, growling with all the ferocity a three-year-old can muster. Her laughter—pure and untainted—cuts through the walls I've built around whatever's left of my heart.

This is why I do what I do. This innocence is what I fight to protect in a world that destroys everything beautiful it touches.

When the performance ends, I clap. The sound echoing against ancient stone. Elena throws herself into Isabella's arms, thanking her with the kind of raw enthusiasm only childrenpossess. The smile Isabella gives my daughter makes something twist in my chest. Something I thought I'd burned away long ago.

Her eyes find mine across the room, and for a moment—just a brief, dangerous moment—I see her as she was before betrayal and fire scarred us both. She looks at me without hatred, without fear, and the Beast in me quiets, momentarily tamed.

Elena charges toward me, a blur of energy and lion's mane, words tumbling out in rapid Italian. "È per te, papà. Uno spettacolo per te." It's for you, daddy. A show for you. She climbs into my lap, tiny hands gripping my scarred face without hesitation or disgust. In her eyes, there's no trace of the darkness I carry. To her, I'm just her father—not a monster, not The Beast, just her papà.

For one fucking moment, I let myself believe it.

"Oh no," Isabella's soft voice breaks the spell. I look up to find her sagging against the stone wall, one hand pressed to her chest before sliding up to her throat. Her fingers press against her pulse point, eyes widening in recognition of what's happening.

Her gaze meets mine—a silent plea. She doesn't want to scare Elena. Even now, even after everything, she's protecting my daughter.

"Your SVT?" I keep my voice steady despite the unexpected spike of adrenaline flooding my system.

"Huh-huh," she confirms, her breath coming shorter.

I shift Elena gently. "Elena cara, I'm going to ask Signora Martha to take you to lunch, okay." Before she can protest, I lower my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Isabella and I have to talk about more costumes for your show."

Elena nods, easily bought with the promise of more performances. I fire off texts to both Signora Martha and the doctor, every muscle in my body tense as I watch Isabella reach for water with trembling fingers.

When Elena leaves the room with Signora Martha, I approach Isabella, every muscle in my body tense with conflicting instincts. The sight of tears in her eyes triggers something primal—a reaction I didn't anticipate and don't fucking want.

"I'm okay," she murmurs, stepping back as if my touch might burn. The movement feels like an accusation—a reminder of what I've become in her eyes.

My jaw clenches as I struggle against the warring impulses. The Beast demanding I maintain distance. The man I used to be wanting to help. What the hell am I doing? This woman betrayed my mother, cost me everything. Yet here I am, fighting the urge to comfort her.

"Your heart needs to slow down," I say finally, my voice rougher than intended. The clinical approach feels safer than whatever else might slip out. "Try to breathe." The words come out like commands rather than comfort.

A harsh laugh escapes her, the sound scraping like steel against stone, making her wince as her pulse visibly speeds up. "You ordering me to calm down now?" Her words come between labored breaths. "Three months of nothing, and now you're what—concerned?" The bitterness in her voice slices through the air between us, but I can see the fear beneath it. See how she's using anger to mask panic.

She shakes her head, the movement barely perceptible. "It's going so fast..." Her fingers press harder against her throat, shoulders rising with each shallow breath.

"The doctor is on his way." The pulse in her throat hammers visibly, too fast, too erratic. I step closer, and she retreats until her back hits the stone wall.

"Don't," she warns, voice cracking. "Don't pretend to care now."

Something inside me snaps. "This isn't about caring," I growl, needing to maintain the distance between us, needing toremember why I locked her away. "This is about keeping you alive for the contract. For Elena." The lie tastes like acid, but it's better than admitting the Beast still has weaknesses.

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