Page 18 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

Without warning, I grab her wrist. She jumps at the contact.

"What the hell are you doing?" Her voice is soft but edged with that defiance I can't seem to break.

I don't answer. Don't acknowledge how her skin feels like silk against my callused fingers. I press harder, trying to find her pulse.

"Really?" Her tone is cutting now. "If you're going to play doctor..." She yanks my hand to her neck, placing my fingers against her pulse point. "There."

The frantic fluttering beneath my touch sends something primal roaring through my blood. Mine. To protect. To control. To break.

"Your heart's still racing," I growl, pulling away like she burns. I grab my phone, needing distance from whatever the fuck is happening inside me. The Beast doesn't care. The Beast doesn't feel.

"I know it's not deadly," she says with a bitter half-smile. "It's never been deadly before. Just terrifying."

I don't respond to that vulnerability. Can't afford to. Instead, I call the hospital, my voice pure steel. "Dieci minuti," I bark into the phone, not bothering to soften my tone. "We're ten minutes out. Have Dr. Draghi waiting. Atrioventricular nodal reentry tachycardia. I need electrocardiogram, adenosine ready, full cardiac workup. And keep the staff minimal—anyone I don't approve doesn't get within ten meters of her."

Isabella's eyes widen. "How do you know the exact diagnosis?" Suspicion laces every word.

"I like knowing exactly what I own, Bell'cenda." The cruelty is deliberate, necessary. A reminder of the walls between us. "Every weakness. Every vulnerability. Every way you might try to escape me."

She doesn't say another word, but I could tell her that during those three months, I had her entire medical history laid out before me like a map of territory to conquer. Had men questioning every nurse, every doctor who ever treated her. Not because I cared—because I needed to know if she was playing me like she played my mother.

Silence fills the car until I notice she's trembling. Not from fear of me. From the memory of that hospital room where they stopped her heart. Before I can stop myself, I slide closer, the Beast retreating just enough to let something older, something I've tried to burn away, take control.

"Don't." Her voice cracks on the single syllable. "I know why you came. Your concern wasn't for me." Her breath hitches. "If I die, you can forget that stupid dinner. That's all this is."

"That dinner is important," I snarl, anger flaring hot at how easily she reads me. At how seeing her tremble makes my chest tighten in ways it shouldn't. At how I can't decide if I want to comfort her or remind her exactly who holds her leash.

"Let me be clear," I growl, leaning close enough that she can't escape my gaze. "I'm not budging until I know you're safe. You're not facing this alone—not because I care, but because I don't trust you. One moment of freedom and who knows what plans you'd hatch? What lies you'd tell?"

The car stops before she can respond, and Dean opens the door. Isabella slides out without my help, but my hand finds the small of her back immediately—not gentle, not comforting, but possessive. A reminder that she belongs to me, that her freedom is an illusion I control.

Dr. Draghi meets us at the private entrance, his eyes darting between us. "Let's get you looked after," he says to Isabella before turning to me. "I take it you're sticking around?" His tone suggests he knows better than to try separating us.

"She doesn't leave my sight," I answer, the Beast's chains rattling.

Isabella settles on the edge of the exam bed, her spine straight despite the fear I can see threading through her. "Grazie mille," she thanks him in Italian, her voice threaded with gratitude that never appears when she speaks to me. "For everything." A trace of humor finds its way into her voice, "My heart's quite the sprinter, even though I don't really run myself. Always been a bit of a rebel."

Her attempt at a smile, fragile yet brave, earns a look of deep respect from Dr. Draghi and something darker from me. This is the woman who endured months in stone solitude without breaking. The woman who survived cancer, who dances despite everything her body has endured. The woman I need to hate more than I need to breathe.

Dr. Draghi glances my way, an eyebrow raised, before telling her, "Rebels seem to be a constant in your life, huh?"

She doesn't respond but continues smiling at him as he shares stories while attaching electrodes to her body. I turn away when she changes, but my peripheral vision catches glimpses of scars I once traced with reverent fingers. Scars I mapped like territory I was claiming for my own.

The electrocardiogram confirms what I already knew. When the doctor suggests more vagal maneuvers, Isabella interrupts with "Adenosine," her voice steadier than it has any right to be.

I sink into the chair, arms crossed, a fortress against the pull she exerts without trying. The doctor looks at me, his expression grave. "She's going to be okay. You can hold her hand if you'd like."

The Beast stirs, snarling against his chains. I don't move. Don't speak. Don't acknowledge the war raging inside me.

Because the moment I admit I care is the moment I've lost everything.

Chapter twelve

Isabella

Hedidn'tmove.Notone inch. Not even a halfhearted attempt to offer comfort while the doctor administered the adenosine and the nurses stood by with those terrifying pads—"just in case," they said, like my heart stopping was some casual possibility. While I lay there freaking out, Antonio sat with those ridiculous muscular arms crossed over his chest like he was the one who needed protection from me.

That almost tender voice from earlier? Just another twisted game. Or maybe his way of not showing Elena the truth. How indifferent, dismissive, and vicious the Beast can really be.

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